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A A 







































VIOLA HUDSON 


\ 


Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 

Published by Benziger Brothers 

In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.00; postage 15 cents. 
VIOLA HUDSON 

Hewn along entirely new lines, this positively remarkable book tells the 
story of a heroine sacrificing her rightful position in society rather than 
barter her child’s spiritual heritage. 

CARINA 

The plot is absorbing, the style fresh and charming, the development 
without a flaw.— The Tidings. 

AVERAGE CABINS 

'‘Average Cabins,” like all of Miss Clarke’s books, belongs to the class 
of novels of which there cannot be too many.— Ave Maria. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 

The story is told in Miss Clarke’s best style.— Messenger of the Sacred 
Heart. 

THE POTTER’S HOUSE 

‘‘It abounds with her characteristically effective descriptive passages.” 
— America. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER 

The story is well and interestingly told.— Catholic World. 

URSULA FINCH 

A moving love story that is both wholesome and delightful to read.— 
Fortnightly Review. 

EUNICE 

So charming in telling, so Catholic in spirit.— Catholic Universe. 

THE ELSTONES 

The interest never flags.— America. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER 

Good fiction is richer for its advent.— New World. 

CHILDREN OF EVE 

The narrative is powerful.— Boston Evening- Record. 

THE DEEP HEART 

Altogether delightful, graceful and uplifting.— Catholic Bulletin. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION 

It is a thrilling setting handled with power.— Ecclesiastical Review. 

FINE CLAY 

Full of human interest, not a dull page in the volume.— Western 
Catholic. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS 

The book is interesting throughout.— Exponent. 

THE REST HOUSE 

The interest holds down to the last line.— Brooklyn Tablet. 

ONLY ANNE 

A genuine welcome addition to Catholic fiction.— Ave Maria. 

The craftsmanship is admirable.— Rosary Magazine. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER 

Full of charm and interest.— St. Anthony Messenger. 







Y 

Viola Hudson 

A NOVEL 


BY 

ISABEL C. CLARKE 

Author of “Carina,” etc. 


i 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Publishers of Benziger’s Magazine 

1923 






























/ 

Copyright 1923, by Benziger Brothers 



Printed in the United States of America 


MRS. JV. D. BOSAN^UET 
In Remembrance of 
Happy Hays Spent Long Ago 
At Udapussellawa 






■CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Book I.11 

Book II.235 

Book III.421 







VIOLA HUDSON 

Book I 


1 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Book I 
CHAPTER I 

V IOLA HUDSON lay curled up on a sofa in the 
small dark study at the back of a dining-room 
in South Kensington. A lighted lamp stood upon a 
table at her side, and in the grate a fire burned dully. 
On the table, too, was a small pile of brightly bound 
novels which had just arrived from a circulating 
library. She had intercepted them in the hall, and 
was glancing somewhat perfunctorily at their con¬ 
tents before deciding which one she would read. She 
was aware that very soon her sister-in-law, Cecily 
Hudson, would inevitably come and claim them. 

It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but out¬ 
side a peculiarly dense fog reigned triumphantly over 
the January day. There was no getting away from 
it. Even indoors, with all the doors and windows 
hermetically sealed, it found a way of creeping 
through unsuspected and invisible interstices into 
your eyes and ears and throat, threatening to blind 
and choke you with its malodorous fumes. Of the 
pea-soup variety, it blotted out the world, enveloping 
it in a false, strange, unnatural darkness. The little 
garden with its strip of grass, its smoke-blackened 
shrubs and row of naked poplar trees, was com¬ 
pletely swallowed up by the thick, nauseous curtain. 


12 


VIOLA HUDSON 


On clear days the garden gave Viola furtive glimpses, 
tantalizing, negligible, of Nature’s wonders in a 
world of blackened bricks and mortar and stained 
stucco. She had lived in the country all through her 
childhood, and she still loved to watch with a kind of 
nostalgia the first tentative advances of spring, the 
waning of autumn into winter, which the garden, 
small though it was, could yet offer her. 

Viola, as she lay there in an indolent attitude, was 
a long, slim, attractive creature, graceful despite the 
now almost grotesque dress of the ’nineties, to which 
this portion of her history belongs. Her dark heavy 
hair was worn, without regard to prevailing fashion, 
brushed close to her head and twisted in a great loose 
knot at her neck. She had a square white brow and 
long eyebrows above eyes of singular beauty. They 
were dark, calm, fearless eyes, and belied that hint of 
discontent and restlessness suggested by the slightly 
downward droop of her mouth. 

She put down the book and her thoughts traveled 
back to Ardlesham, where ten years of her childhood 
had been spent under the aegis of an elderly great- 
aunt to whose care she had been consigned after the 
death of her mother. She was the only daughter 
among a family of sons, and had been indeed what is 
sometimes known as the “afterthought,” for she had 
come into the world fourteen years later than her 
youngest brother, George. Her father, whom she 
did not remember, had died when she was two. Her 
mother survived him only four years. It was said 
that her anguish at leaving the little daughter, for 
whom she had always longed was almost tragic in 
its intensity. Viola had felt as a child—felt it still 
when things went wrong—that she had been cheated. 
She had never, since she was six, known the sheltered 
home life of the child whose parents are still alive, 
with the cosy nursery, the competent nurse, the regu¬ 
lar walks, the incessant attention, the petting and the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


13 

constant, loving care. These things had not been 
hers. Miss Hope Malleson, the great-aunt in ques¬ 
tion, had come forward and offered to take charge 
of “poor dear Louisa’s” little girl. She made one 
condition, that she was to be allowed to bring her 
up as a Catholic. There was no one to oppose the 
scheme, and by her three brothers the prompt solu¬ 
tion of such a difficult problem as Viola’s future was 
eagerly welcomed. Matthew, the eldest, who was 
then twenty-four, was a tea-planter in Ceylon. Per- 
cival was at Oxford with the intention of being called 
to the Bar when he had taken his degree. George 
had just left Woolwich and was in the Army. Miss 
Malleson—their father’s aunt—was almost their 
only near relation. Viola was conducted to her new 
home at Ardlesham by Percival. He gave her ten 
shillings and told her to be a good little girl. Then 
he went away feeling that he had discharged a very 
disagreeable duty which should by rights have fallen 
to Matthew. 

Miss Malleson was a slightly austere Catholic. 
She was a convert, and it sometimes seemed that in 
embracing a new faith she had not perfectly emanci¬ 
pated herself from the joylessness of the old. There 
was a touch of Calvinism, not in her creed but in her 
nature. She had been brought up in an old-world 
Evangelical school. She was often severe with Viola 
because she held it to be her duty to check certain 
wilful tendencies in the child’s passionate, warm¬ 
hearted nature. And Viola was not an easy child. 
She had been her mother’s darling for six years, dur¬ 
ing which time she had never known a harsh word, 
nor the meaning of punishment. All this was now 
changed. It was perhaps strange that with her 
harshness, her rigidity, Miss Malleson did not give 
the child an actual distaste for the religion in which 
she educated her. Fortunately, however, this did 
not prove to be the case. Almost from the first, 


14 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Viola was imbued with a passionate love for the 
Blessed Virgin. She saw in her a divinely maternal 
Figure to whom she could take all the very real and 
bitter little trials and troubles of her new life. She 
was comforted with the thought of that love, be¬ 
stowed so freely upon all little children because to 
Mary had been confided the care of the Divine 
Child. Perhaps at first there was some confusion 
in Viola’s mind between this Mother and her 
own. But the love she had for her grew with 
her growth. She could remember the little 
scene that took place every night in the dining-room 
when the whole household assembled, and kneeling, 
recited the rosary. She could hear even now the fer¬ 
vent voice of the Irish cook sounding loud above 
the rest. 

With a child’s instinctive knowledge Viola had 
realized that from the first she had formed an un¬ 
wanted item in the economy of the little household 
at Ardlesham. She was a discordant element in that 
prim little country house. Miss Malleson believed 
that the way to bring up a child was on a nicely 
devised system of punishments. Their severity was 
calculated to match the heinousness of the crime. 
For disobedience or untruthfulness no mercy was 
shown. A less spirited child would have been cowed 
by the stern upbringing. 

But Miss Malleson had died suddenly when Viola 
was eleven, and in her will she left her the whole of 
her little fortune, amounting to about five or six 
thousand pounds. The interest was to accumulate 
until Viola came of age—a restriction which was 
always resented by her brothers, who declared they 
were out of pocket, since Viola possessed little 
money besides this legacy. The question again arose 
as to what should become of her. She was sent to a 
convent school, and her holidays, it was decided, 
should be spent with George, now quartered at 


VIOLA HUDSON 


i5 

Woolwich. He was married and had a little family, 
and his rather worldly wife disliked the burden of 
the dark-haired, long-legged child. At seventeen— 
barely a year ago—Viola had left school, and George 
had been ordered to Malta, whither he altogether 
declined to take her. She was oncekmore stranded, 
and a family council was held to decide her future. 
George wrote to Matthew and asked him if he would 
now take charge of his sister. Matthew was a man 
little given to promiscuous extravagance, but from 
a remote fastness in the Ceylon hills he cabled his 
answer, “Certainly not,” without delay. To Viola 
that Certainly not had been like a blow in the face. 
His subsequent letter had, however, shown that his 
reasons for this abrupt refusal were prompted by a 
deep, unselfish consideration for his sister’s welfare. 
He enumerated them categorically, for he was a 
methodical man. They were : (1) that his bunga¬ 

low had no accommodation for a lady, (2) that it 
was situated eight miles from a cartroad through a 
stretch of hilly jungle, and (3) that Viola could 
hardly be expected to waste her youth and chances 
of matrimony in that remote and inhospitable spot. 
He did not add that his recollection of her when 
under George’s roof would alone have decided his 
answer. He could see her now, as pretty as a flower 
but mutinous and passionate, with kindling eyes and 
puckered brow, stamping her foot because Mrs. 
George Hudson had refused to allow her to have a 
new summer frock in place of the one which Viola 
declared had become too short. He did not think 
that sort of thing would promote his own peace. 
Besides, he was a recluse and something of a miser, 
and he felt that the presence of a young and pretty 
and obviously self-willed sister would be certain to 
attract, in that particularly womanless district, a 
host of impecunious and undesirable young men to 
the bungalow. 


16 


VIOLA HUDSON 


It was a relief to everyone when Percival, always 
indolently good-natured, affirmed his readiness to 
take her. 

“And of course,” thought Viola, “when I’m 
twenty-one I shall go and live by myself.” 

In the rather narrow groove to which fate had 
consigned her, in the house of a busy brother and a 
slightly ill-tempered sister-in-law, Viola was often 
restive. On that foggy morning the desire for 
change and movement almost cruelly possessed her. 
She looked up suddenly and addressed the blackened 
pane of glass which presented her with a smudged 
reflection of herself, faintly illuminated by the elec¬ 
tric lamp. Its blurred, uncertain outlines resembled 
an unfinished impression by a master artist. 

“If I ever have a daughter—” she said aloud. 

The face reflected in the window smiled back with 
a discontent that was at once cynical and rather 
sorrowful. 

She did not finish the sentence. 

“Viola! Viola!” 

She did not move. Let Cecily come and find her! 
She opened a book and feigned to be reading when 
Mrs. Percival Hudson bustled into the room. 

“Viola! I’ve been hunting for you. I found the 
children alone and absolutely idle. No prepara¬ 
tion—nothing! I told you I should want you to give 
them their lessons this morning.” 

Viola dropped her book on the floor. Before 
answering she stretched out a long slim arm to re¬ 
cover it. Cecily was evidently in an irate mood. 
She was a little hard-faced woman, dressed with 
an extreme of neatness. 

“But that was because you were going to shop in 
High Street. You can’t be going out now in this—” 
Viola gave a little fastidious shudder as she glanced 
again at the window and at the false night that 
reigned outside. “No one could, you know.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


17 

“I have plenty to do indoors. And I can’t pos¬ 
sibly do it unless someone takes the children off 
my hands. They must learn their lessons, and I 
wish you would understand that, as you have nothing 
in the world to do except lie here and read novels, 
I wish you to give them three hours’ lessons every 
morning and then take them for a walk.” 

She raised her voice a little. Viola exasperated 
her. Here she was, living with them, not paying a 
penny piece toward her keep (but that was Percival’s 
fault for refusing to take anything) and never 
raising a finger to help anyone. 

“They’re your children, not mine,” said Viola, 
coolly; “if they were mine they should go to school 
every day. They’re quite old enough, and they need 
the stimulus of other children.” 

“They are far too young to go to school. And 
you have nothing to do—you can perfectly well 
teach them. You need occupation. And I sup¬ 
pose you learned something at that expensive con¬ 
vent school!” Cecily glanced significantly at the 
little heap of novels lying on the table. “You are 
terribly idle, Viola. Percival was only saying this 
morning—” 

“Thank you—I don’t in the least want to know 
what Percival said!” 

“If you were not here, you would have to be 
earning your own living. You could teach or 
nurse . . 

“Well, I should like nothing better than to go 
on the stage!” 

“On the stage? My dear Viola—Percival would 
never permit it for a moment!” 

“I wish I had been born thirty years later,” said 
Viola, with a sigh. “I’ve a kind of prophetic in¬ 
stinct that round about the year nineteen-twenty, 
girls will be able to work in all kinds of ways that 
are closed to them now, without being thought im- 


i8 


VIOLA HUDSON 


proper or revolutionary. When you came in I was 
just thinking that when I have a daughter—if I ever 
do have one—” 

“It’s a pity that you waste your time with such 
silly day-dreams!” 

“Even Margery will have more liberty than I’ve 
ever had!” said Viola, disregarding her. 

“Margery will do as she is told!” snapped Cecily, 
with decision. 

Viola rose languidly. “Well, I’ll go up and try 
to teach the young idea to shoot,” she said, trailing 
toward the door. She was very graceful with her 
small well-set head; she carried herself like a young 
queen. 

As she said the words, it came into her mind that 
the twigs were decidedly unpromising; they were 
both so like their mother. Cecily imposed her per¬ 
sonality on people; she had even diminished Per- 
cival’s lightness of touch. . . . 

He was a very busy man, making a good income 
at the Bar. They might just as well have engaged 
a governess for their children. She was sure that 
Percival had never intended that she should teach 
them. 

Margery and Lionel were very stupid that morn¬ 
ing. It was as if the fog had penetrated into their 
brains, slightly congesting them. It seemed to Viola 
indeed that they were obstinately stupid. She had 
a special aptitude for teaching, as Cecily had not 
been slow to discover; her vivid imagination could 
invest even commonplace things with a spark of 
poetry and romance. She had a gay, bright, inter¬ 
esting way of imparting knowledge. But Margery 
and Lionel were singularly unresponsive. They 
were lethargic and inattentive, gazing at their aunt 
with lack-lustre eyes. The music lessons were a per¬ 
fect martyrdom to Viola, for she had a real gift 
for music and both played and sang charmingly. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


19 

But Cecily would not hear of her foregoing them. 

“Of course they must learn, and you do that bet¬ 
ter than anything,’' she had said, with a tightening 
of her determined mouth. 

“Have you learned your history, Margery?” 

“No.” 

“Have you, Lionel?” 

“Yeth.” 

“Let me hear it, then. Margery must learn hers 
after tea.” 

Lionel stumbled through his lesson. He was the 
more painstaking and conscientious of the two. 
Margery was obstinately determined to resist all 
efforts to educate her. She rejected every branch 
of knowledge with an impartial disdain. 

“That’s very good, Lionel. Now your arith¬ 
metic.” 

For the next half hour the mysteries of Long 
Division absorbed their attention. Lionel accom¬ 
plished his task, laboriously but accurately. He was 
a year younger than Margery—it was a satisfaction 
to beat her. She, however, felt no shame. 

“Please, miss, Lady Bethnell’s in the drawing¬ 
room and wishes to see you.” The maid’s prim 
voice interrupted a brilliant and detailed account 
of the execution of Mary Stuart. Viola was deter¬ 
mined to make the lesson interesting and alive; she 
would not let herself be deterred by the children’s 
dull, uninspired eyes so firmly fixed upon her face. 
They were like Cecily—that was what was the mat¬ 
ter with them. 

“You can learn your geography while I’m down¬ 
stairs,” said Viola. “This page—mind you look at 
the map. Learn the rivers by heart.” 

She gave a hasty pat to her perfectly tidy head 
and went downstairs. 


20 


VIOLA HUDSON 


CHAPTER II 


L ADY BETHNELL had been a neighbor—a 
remote, powerful if somewhat inaccessible 
neighbor—of Miss Malleson’s. She had known 
Viola as a little girl at Ardlesham, and the bright¬ 
est intervals of that drab stretch of the child’s life 
had been when she was invited to tea at the Park. 
She could remember going there, walking sedately 
by the side of her aunt’s maid Rebecca, her face 
washed, not to say scrubbed, and still stinging a little 
from the energetic process, her dark hair in a tight 
long plait, and her small straight form attired in 
the best dress and shoes never worn on week-days 
for any other reason in the world. 

At the end of the walk, there was Lady Beth- 
nell, a little gruff and abrupt but extraordinarily 
kind . . . and there was Esme. Esme was the 
only child of the house, a wild undisciplined boy a 
few years older than herself. She had invariably 
followed where he led and always—as far as she 
was concerned—with disastrous results. Once she 
had fallen into the pond—or had Esme pushed her 
in? They could never quite decide how it had hap¬ 
pened, but she had returned home with her frock 
and shoes soaking and ruined. Another time she 
had fallen from a tree and had come back bruised 
and bleeding, with her garments torn and her face 
scratched. She was very plucky, Esme used to tell 
her, for however much she was hurt she never yelled. 
But he did not know how sharply she had to suffer 
for these childish misdemeanors. 

Esme was in India with his regiment. She had 
not seen him for many years—not since the old 
Ardlesham days. But Lady Bethnell remembered 
her, came to see her sometimes when she was in 
town, and sent her a present at Christmas. There 


VIOLA HUDSON 21 

was sympathy between^ the elderly woman and the 
young girl. 

Lady Bethnell had an old irascible husband with 
whom she periodically quarreled violently. If he 
continued impenitently irascible she, being a woman 
of boundless spirit, would leave him at Ardlesham, 
and go abroad for her health until he was in a bet¬ 
ter frame of mind. Such a moment had now super¬ 
vened, and it was fortunate that it synchronized with 
a spell of the most evil weather January could offer. 
She felt that she had every excuse for leaving him. 

Lord Bethnell was a self-made man; his title was 
a brand-new one, and he was very proud of it. His 
wife, who had a respectable array of ancestors, was 
less dazzled by it. Still, it was something to hand on 
to Esme, whom she adored with an imprudent un¬ 
wisdom that even sometimes astonished herself. 

“Well, my dear child, I’m in luck to find you!” 

She kissed Viola energetically on both cheeks. 

“You didn’t suppose I should be out in this fog?” 
inquired Viola. 

“I am a cockney—I never pay any attention to 
fogs. They are part of London. Just as much a 
part of it as the Thames or the Marble Arch! 
Don’t let that sister-in-law of yours come in, my 
dear; she makes me nervous!” 

“It’ll take her twenty minutes to dress,” said 
Viola mendaciously, “so you’re safe for the present. 
It is nice to see you!” 

Lady Bethnell beamed. She was about sixty and 
still handsome, bearing her years well. She was 
enveloped in furs, soft, costly, wonderful. She still 
clung to the even then dying fashion of wearing 
a bonnet with strings. It disclosed her thick gray 
hair, accurately parted and waving in a natural 
crinkle. She had green eyes—the color of green 
water and almost as clear. Esme had inherited 


22 


VIOLA HUDSON 


the eyes, and the fine crinkly hair, though his was 
still of a pale golden brown. 

“I want you to pack up your things—of course 
you’ll say you haven’t any—and come abroad with 
me almost at once. My niece—the one I always 
take—has got measles. So childish, and she’s 
nearly forty! My doctor says I must positively go 
abroad, and I’m going to Santa Margherita and then 
to Venice. I simply can’t face the winter at Ardle- 
sham without Esme, especially now Bethnell has got 
the gout!” 

“Go abroad with you?” repeated Viola, almost 
as if she had not heard aright. 

It sounded like a fantastic fairy tale—the sort 
of thing that never happened in real life. And 
Lady Bethnell was right—she hadn’t a rag to her 
back. 

“But of course I can’t,” she continued, with a 
swift return to earth; “it’s impossible—it would 
cost too much—Cecily would never spare me.” 

“It won’t cost you anything at all. And I should 
think Mrs. Hudson would be thankful to be relieved 
of the responsibility. You were always a handful, 
my dear child! You shall come as my daughter. 
Of course I shall take my maid, but I want someone 
to go about with me. As for clothes—there are 
shops in Italy, you know.” 

She had a magic way of demolishing petty ob¬ 
stacles. 

“Besides, I want you. I won’t be put off. I’m 
a selfish old woman and I want a young face with 
me. I thought of it this morning when Pearce was 
doing my hair. It came into my head like an in¬ 
spiration. I said to myself: That poor child Viola 
Hudson has a frightfully thin time—why not take 
her?” 

“You’re a darling,” said Viola. She knew that 
Lady Bethnell liked to be addressed jn this familiar, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


23 

affectionate fashion. “It was too dear of you to 
think of it. But of course I can’t come—” All 
the time she was speaking, her heart was beating 
with excitement. “I’ve simply nothing to wear. 
I’ve mortgaged my next quarter’s allowance. You 
couldn’t possibly be seen with such a shabby com¬ 
panion.’’ 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. My woman shall run 
you up a few things to go on with. Just a frock 
or two—I’ll take you there to-morrow morning. 
And we shall start on Monday. You mustn’t say 
no, Viola. If you do, I shall have to take my other 
niece, Peggy, and she bores me to death. I don’t 
feel up to her.” 

“I’ll ask Cecily,” said Viola, “but she hates my 
doing anything exciting.” 

Still, the plan seemed to be materializing under 
Lady Bethnell’s capable hands. 

She had never been abroad. Italy for her held 
the magic allurement, the age-old charm it possesses 
for the young of every generation. She was nearly 
eighteen and she had seen nothing. Cecily always 
said she wasn’t old enough to come out. 

Then suddenly she thought of the two children 
idling over their geography lesson upstairs. 

“But who’ll teach Margery and Lionel? And 
they’re so backward!” 

“My dear, they are Mrs. Hudson’s children, not 
yours. She must make other arrangements.” 

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson came into 
the room, more quietly than usual for she was a 
little in awe of her visitor. She had spent the brief 
interval in donning a black silk dress she had lately 
acquired. Her hair was very neatly arranged. She 
made a strong contrast to Viola, who had rushed 
down from the schoolroom still clad in her shabby 
blouse and skirt to greet her old friend. It was 


VIOLA HUDSON 


24 

astonishing that with so little trouble she always 
managed to look so charming. 

Lady Bethnell greeted Mrs. Hudson with a touch 
of formality. At such moments she was very much 
the great lady who held a whole neighborhood under 
her autocratic sway. She belonged to a type that 
has now utterly vanished. 

“I’m going to steal Viola, Mrs. Hudson. Take 
her away from these fogs. . . . We start for Italy 
on Monday.” 

Viola’s dark eyes shone. The assurance in Lady 
Bethnell’s tone almost convinced her of her capabil¬ 
ity of carrying the scheme into effect. And to go 
away—quite away—into the sunshine. . . . Not 
to teach Margery and Lionel any more. Never to 
hear those dreadful wrong notes. 

Cecily’s face stiffened. “You have asked Viola 
to go to Italy with you?” 

“Yes. As my daughter ... I shall pay all 
the expenses,” said Lady Bethnell. 

“Oh, Cecily, won’t it be just perfect? Venice!” 

“I’ve heard it’s very damp and foggy there in 
winter,” observed Mrs. Hudson, determinedly un- 
enthusiastic. 

“We shall go to the Italian Riviera first,” said 
Lady Bethnell. 

“And Viola has simply nothing to w T ear. She 
never has. Worn through at once—” She eyed 
the shabby serge skirt that did nothing to'detract 
from the slim boyish grace of its wearer. 

“We’ve discussed that—I’m going to see about 
it to-morrow. Well, that’s all, I think, my dear. 
Come to lunch to-morrow. My usual rooms in 
Dover Street.” 

“Oh, but I’ve never thanked you,” said Viola, 
beaming. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


25 

“Wait till the end of our trip. I’m a tiresome 
old woman—it won’t be roses all the way!” 

She rose, shook hands with Mrs. Hudson and 
slipped her hand in Viola’s arm. In the narrow 
hall they faced each other under the blurred electric 
lamp, dimmed by the fog. 

Viola leaned down a little, for she was the taller 
of the two, and kissed Lady Bethnell, whispering, 
“But I do thank you. It’ll be lovely going quite 
away like that. I’m so sick of it here.” 

She opened the front door. The fog had lifted 
a little, and it was now possible to discern a 
phantom-like horse and brougham, just beyond the 
curb. A phantom figure in livery approached, 
touched his hat and opened the door of the carriage. 
Lady Bethnell made a stately and dignified entrance, 
and brougham and occupant vanished, swallowed 
up by the thick, choking, yellow curtain. 

Viola went back soberly to the drawing-room. 
Mrs. Hudson was standing near the fire, and as she 
came in she said abruptly: 

“It’s all nonsense, Viola. Of course you can’t 
go. I didn’t like to say so in front of Lady Beth¬ 
nell—she has such a rude way of catching one up!” 

“Oh, but it’s all quite settled and I’m going on 
Monday. Please don’t let us discuss it, Cecily.” 

“Percival is your guardian—I feel positive that 
he won’t allow it!” 

“Dear old Percival—he always wants me to enjoy 
myself. And I’ve known Lady Bethnell since I 
was a small child. Of course I’m going with her.” 

Cecily’s tight-lipped “We shall see” was scarcely 
encouraging. She meant to speak to Percival pri¬ 
vately. Such a trip as that, would ruin Viola. It 
was difficult enough to get her to help in any way 
now, and she would certainly return more useless 
and indolent than ever. 


2.6 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“I must go back to the children,” said Viola, 
moving toward the door. “Oh, won’t it be fun, 
Cecily? I want to go to Venice more than anywhere 
in the world I” 

Already her active imagination was conjuring up 
a mental picture of St. Mark’s, with its gilded 
cupolas, its wide white piazza, where the world- 
famous pigeons preened and disported themselves. 
She saw, too, the Doge’s Palace, the Bridge of 
Sighs, the Lagoon lying under the stars, the gon¬ 
dolas floating idly upon it. Light and air and water 
and sunshine. . . . This fog choked you. 

She ran lightly up the stairs. Her eyes and cheeks 
were aglow. 

Soberly she entered the schoolroom. 

“Have you learned your geography, Margery?” 

“No.” 

“That’ll be a double lesson to do after tea.” 

Margery puckered up her face. “No,” she said, 
firmly. 

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Viola. “Have 
you learned yours, Lionel?” 

“Yeth. But Margery would talk.” 

“Don’t tell tales.” 

For another half-hour the lessons went on. Then 
Viola said: 

“Margery, when you have a governess you’ll have 
to pay more attention or you’ll get into trouble. I’m 
going away next week, and I don’t expect I shall 
ever teach you again.” 

Margery lifted dull, critical, hostile eyes. 

“Going away for good?” 

“Well, for a long time, anyhow.” 

“Hooray,” said Margery, clapping her small 
brown hands. 

“You’ll have to do lessons, all the same,” said 
Viola. 

“Shan’t do them,” said Margery, obstinately. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


27 

“I’m not glad Aunt Viola’s going,” said Lionel, 
reflectively. He had an obscure desire to dissociate 
himself from his sister’s revolutionary views. 

“You were always a muff,” said Margery, con¬ 
temptuously. 

“Now run off and wash your hands,” said Viola, 
briskly. 

Percival only returned home to luncheon on Sat¬ 
urdays and Sundays when he was not playing golf, 
so Cecily had to control her impatience till he came 
in about seven o’clock. He was met almost on the 
threshold by a perturbed-looking wife. 

“My dear Cissy, what’s happened now? I hope 
no one’s been run down in the fog!” 

“Come into the drawing-room, Percival. I wish 
to speak to you alone. Lady Bethnell came this 
morning and she wants to take Viola with her to 
Italy next week, paying all the expenses.” 

“Jolly lucky for Vi! It’s time she saw something 
of the world.” 

He was very fond of his sister, in an undemon¬ 
strative, brotherly fashion, often wishing, however, 
that she hit it off better with Cecily. She was such 
a good-looking girl—knew how to do her hair and 
put on her clothes. He felt that she did him credit. 

“And the children can go to school,” he continued; 
“they’re idle little beggars—they don’t do a stroke 
of work.” 

“It is entirely Viola’s fault that Margery is so 
backward. She doesn’t understand her.” 

“My dear, the child absolutely refuses to learn. 
Boasts of it. Vi’s told me so.” 

Cecily flushed. “Oh, of course she hasn’t a good 
word for any of us! And she’ll be ten times worse 
if she goes abroad. She’ll be fit for nothing after 
being thoroughly spoilt by a rich woman like Lady 
Bethnell.” There was a note of fretful exaspera¬ 
tion in her voice. 


28 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Well, she’ll soon be off our hands, in any case. 
Bound to marry, you know—a good-looking girl like 
that, with a few hundreds a year of her own.” 

“Men don’t care for Catholic wives,” said Cecily. 
“And she has only fifty pounds a year till she comes 
of age.” 

Meanwhile Viola was up in her room, turning out 
the contents of her wardrobe, examining each gar¬ 
ment in turn, putting in a stitch here and there, and 
wondering if Rebecca would have any time in which 
to help her. Her attic was cold, but to-night she 
didn’t even resent Cecily’s rule: “No fires in bed¬ 
rooms except in case of illness.” She had put on 
a fur coat, and worked diligently till the gong 
sounded. Then she flung on a tea-gown, and at 
the clang of the second gong ran downstairs. Per- 
cival kissed her—an unusual attention. 

“Glad to hear of your good luck, Vi! There’s 
a son, isn’t there?” 

“Yes. But he’s in India, so don’t build on that,” 
laughed Viola. 

Percival beamed. “The children will miss you. 
Idle little beggars—I mean to send them both to 
school.” 

“Lionel, perhaps,” interposed Cecily, “but not 
Margery. She mustn’t be forced.” 

“Forced!” Percival rocked with laughter. 

“Most fathers like to think their children are 
moderately intelligent,” said Cecily, with asperity. 

“So they do—if they’ve half a chance. Ask Viola 
if Margery’s ever done a stroke of work since she 
took on their lessons.” 

“Viola does not understand them. They have 
certainly made no progress in the past year,” said 
Mrs. Hudson, pointedly. 

“Well, that shows they want a firmer hand than 
Vi’s. I’m sure she has slaved enough.” 

Viola scarcely listened to the discussion, although 


VIOLA HUDSON 


29 

she was dimly aware that Percival was taking her 
part—always an unwise thing to do. She was 
slowly determining that she would never again re¬ 
turn to Cecily’s roof if she could avoid it. . . . It 
was far, far worse than it had been at Woolwich 
with the George Hudsons. George’s wife was very 
trying, but, then, she was nearly always out. Cecily 
rarely went out and was almost invariably at home 
to meals. 

“I hope Viola will make a good marriage,” said 
Percival. “She’ll meet people now.” 

He felt that almost anything was possible under 
the ample, opulent wing of Lady Bethnell. He had 
always wanted to “do something” for his sister, and 
was glad she should have this opportunity of going 
abroad. 

“Oh, but I don’t want to be married. I want 
to be free,” said Viola. 

“That’s all nonsense—women can’t be free,” said 
Percival, sagaciously. 

Sometimes he was slightly anxious about Viola. 
She had an independent spirit which seemed to him 
dangerous. 

Cecily was thinking what a shocking housekeeper 
Viola would make. And she didn’t really care for 
children. She had never even tried to understand 
Margery. It was almost a consolation to Mrs. 
Hudson to feel that Viola’s religion would certainly 
stand in the way of her making a brilliant marriage 
. . . unless, of course, she married a foreigner. 


CHAPTER III 

I DON’T mind telling you in confidence, my 
dear, that I’ve had one of the worst rows with 
Bethnell I’ve ever had in my life. He’s too obsti¬ 
nate for words, and I need hardly tell you it’s about 


3° 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Esme. The poor boy has been in India for more 
than two years, and he’s run through all his money, 
of course—he always does. And he ought to come 
home, and Bethnell refuses to send him another 
penny. It isn’t as if he hadn’t got heaps. Tie 
simply doesn’t know what to do with it all. I can’t 
make him realize the heavy expenses Esme has in 
India. He plays polo, and then he goes out a great 
deal.” 

Lady Bethnell adored her only child. She found 
a sympathetic listener in Viola, who had never for¬ 
gotten her old admiration for the proud wilful boy 
who had once been the only intimate playmate she 
had in the world. 

“It’s a shame. Bethnell doesn’t understand young 
men. And like all self-made people he sits on his 
money.” 

“I should like to see Esme again. Why, he was 
at Eton when I left Ardlesham,” said Viola. 

Lady Bethnell produced a collection of photo¬ 
graphs, some mere snap-shots, others finished and 
professional products. Esme in uniform, Esme on 
his polo pony, Esme with racquet in hand. Always 
the same proud bold face, insolent as if aware of 
its own beauty. Very fair, with blond crinkly hair, 
and green eyes—like a cat’s. That was how Viola 
remembered him. 

Well, he wouldn’t quarrel with her now. Per¬ 
haps he would give her a curt nod and a stare, and 
pass on, if he were to see her again. His mother’s 
traveling companion. . . . She was piqued at the 
thought. 

“The money flows through his fingers,” continued 
Lady Bethnell, meditatively, as she laid down the 
photographs one by one. “I do hope he will marry 
a rich woman. There is a Miss Clethorpe, a near 
neighbor of ours, who would suit him admirably. 
So pretty, and quite an heiress. It was one of the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 i 


reasons why I wanted him to come home this year. 
There’s no other solution. Bethnell is seventy, and 
he will probably live another twenty years. And he 
won’t even send him the money for his passage.” 

She put the photographs back in a drawer. Pres¬ 
ently she added, in a more hopeful tone: “If he 
wants to get me back from Venice he’ll cable for 
Esme. I know he hates it when I’m not at Ardles- 
ham.” 

# So the journey abroad was being taken to force 
his hand. 

She was in a generous mood and her gifts to 
Viola were expensive and dainty. There was a 
costly fur coat such as Viola had never dreamed of 
possessing. But Lady Bethnell had no fancy for 
going about with a shabby companion. And it 
pleased her, too, to see the girl’s lovely young face 
light up, as she made these purchases. 

“If Esme could see her,” she thought. 

And mentally she resolved that as long as she 
could possibly prevent it, Esme should not see her. 
He was twenty-two, and it would be fatal for him 
to make a foolish, imprudent marriage. And they 
had been intimate friends in the old days, those two. 
They could not meet as it were for the first time. 
There would be the bond of those youthful pleasant 
memories. 

Lady Bethnell remained for some time on the 
Italian Riviera, at San Remo, Rapallo, Santa Mar- 
gherita. She journeyed in leisurely fashion, renewing 
her acquaintance with the sunny little towns that 
clung pearl-like to the olive-clad shores, overlooking 
that wonderful blue sea. They did not reach Venice 
until March. Lady Bethnell rented a friend’s apart¬ 
ment on the Grand Canal, and soon they were most 
comfortably installed there. The freedom of her 
present life was very sweet to Viola, and her duties 
were as few and as little irksome as possible. Her 


VIOLA HUDSON 


32 

friendship with Lady Bethnell deepened daily. 

It was, too, her first glimpse of Italy, and Venice 
completely won her heart as it always does that of 
the imaginative foreigner. There were gray spring 
days of soft rain that blotted out the islands and 
hung filmy webs of mist over the lagoon, but even 
these were beautiful. Beautiful, too, were the days 
when the sharp tramontana wind blew vigorously 
down from Alpine snows, accompanied by brilliant 
sunlight that delineated everything with hard precise 
outlines. The chill air flowing in like a stream was 
brisk and invigorating. 

And for the first time since she had left her con¬ 
vent school, Viola found herself in a Catholic atmos¬ 
phere. This, however, held something deep and 
rich that she had never before savored. It affected 
her almost insensibly, and it softened her. The 
touch of defiance, developed in her life with Cecily, 
dropped from her. She seemed to expand like an 
exquisite flower. 

Like many Englishwomen when abroad, Lady 
Bethnell usually attended Mass on Sundays. She 
was especially fond of St. Mark’s, and thither they 
almost invariably went. A function with the Cardi¬ 
nal Patriarch present especially thrilled her. She 
lamented the absence of Cardinals in the English 
Church. 

One day as they were walking home together after 
a long ceremony, Lady Bethnell said suddenly: 

“I like the Catholic religion, but all the same I 
wish you weren’t a Catholic.” 

“Why?” inquired Viola, interested but puzzled. 

“Because I should like to have had you for my 
daughter-in-law,” said Lady Bethnell, bluntly. 

“Oh, you know you would never have thought 
me good enough!” laughed Viola. 

“Well, there’s no use thinking of it as things are. 
Esme must marry money, and his wife must be a 


VIOLA HUDSON 


33 

Protestant, and sit in the front pew in Ardlesham 
church on Sundays. Anything else would scandalize 
the neighborhood most horribly. And then his 
father can do as he likes with his money—that’s the 
worst of a self-made man, for then of course nothing 
is entailed. If Esme doesn’t do just as he wishes, 
he may be a pauper. I never knew anyone less suited 
to be a pauper—he has every expensive taste you 
can imagine!” She smiled reminiscently. “I, on 
the contrary, have always tried to give him every¬ 
thing he wanted whether it was good for him or not. 
He found that out before he was two. Nurse after 
nurse left in despair, saying that I was ruining him. 
As if anyone could ruin my beautiful boy.” 

“You must console yourself with the thought that, 
considering all my disabilities, we aren’t likely to 
meet,” said Viola. There was a touch of bitterness 
in her voice. No girl cares to have the fact of her 
ineligibility to be a certain man’s wife rubbed in, 
so to speak. And she had the uncomfortable con¬ 
viction that if she saw Esme again, he would still 
possess that ancient power to attract her as he had 
done in the days when she was a little, willing, bullied 
slave to the handsome selfish boy. 

Once he had picked her up in his arms and kissed 
her, saying: 

“You’re not half a bad little kid! I shouldn’t 
have minded having a sister like you.” 

She reflected she must have been very small at the 
time, for him to lift her up with such ease. He had 
never kissed her again till the day when she had 
gone up to the Park to take leave of his mother, 
after the death and funeral of Miss Malleson. She 
could see herself—a sedate, black-clad figure, se¬ 
cretly a little proud of her new mourning. They 
had all kissed her then, and told her they were 
sorry she was going away from Ardlesham. 

Lady Bethnell could also remember that day. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


34 

Viola was a wild-looking little thing who had the 
air of having been caught and forcibly tamed. But 
Miss Malleson had not lived long enough to com¬ 
plete the taming process. She had sowed the seed, 
and passed on. And here in Venice Viola was be¬ 
coming more and more aware of all that she had 
done for her. She had given her the Faith. The 
child had even then been thoroughly instructed in 
the great dogmas of her religion. But she felt that 
she had never loved it until now. She had never 
quite fully realized its beauty. And now she was 
told that it was something that would prevent Esme 
from marrying her if she should ever meet him 
again. Not that they were ever likely to see each 
other. . . . 

“I used to feel sorry for you at Ardlesham,” said 
Lady Bethnell. 

“Did you really?” 

“Yes. You looked so forlorn. And poor dear 
Miss Malleson was a little terrifying.” 

“She certainly terrified me,” said Viola, dryly. 

“And yet she was very fond of you.” 

“Yes, I suppose she was. But she was very hard 
—she never overlooked the least little thing. I 
was glad when she died, and then I thought I was 
wicked. But it was almost worse when I went to 
live with George and his wife. Instead of being 
corrected and punished, I w r as simply neglected ex¬ 
cept when I was at school. That lasted nearly six 
years, and now Eve been for more than a year with 
Cecily.” 

“I must congratulate you upon having survived.” 

“Percival’s always kind. He’s one of those fat 
good-natured men!” 

“Still, you looked awfully hipped that day I 
came.” 

Viola laughed. “Did I? Well, you were a per¬ 
fect fairy godmother! Bringing me here! If you 


VIOLA HUDSON 35 

knew how I’d longed and longed to see Italy.” 

She looked at the broad water of the Canal flow- 
ing past in the bright sunshine. There was a sparkle, 
a dazzling light, that entranced her. 

Lady Bethnell was touched and gratified. She 
had been actuated by a purely selfish motive, and by 
some ironical perversity she had been accredited with 
an altruistic one. Viola was certainly charming, 
and delicious to look at in this softened, changed 
aspect. That dour bringing up of hers had made 
her unselfish, considerate for others, easily pleased, 
eager to be of use. She had also a strong sense of 
duty. The ease and peace of her present life had 
improved her looks; she seemed to be blossoming in 
this soft Venetian air. The muggy sirocco, so often 
baleful in its effects, had brought a delicious tinge 
of color to her face, a brightness to her long dark 
eyes. 

As long as Esme wasn’t there to see her! . . . 

The days slipped by into weeks, the weeks into 
months, and found them both still unwearied of 
Venice. From England Lord Bethnell had given no 
sign of relenting; it was seldom he held out so long. 
Fie wrote perfectly friendly letters once a week; told 
his wife about the weather, his gout, the horses, the 
hunting, and much more of a domestic nature. Lady 
Bethnell replied to these epistles with good-humor 
and spirit. Incompatible as they were, and now 
half-estranged, they were still oddly necessary to 
each other. After twenty-five years of inharmoni¬ 
ous matrimony, they v/ere at any rate “old enemies.” 

May had come with a flood of sunshine that 
bathed the lagoons and canals with its gold. Even 
in this sea-girt city the gardens were a wonder of 
blossom. The roses rioted over the ancient gray 
walls, festooning them with fragrant tapestry; the 
acacias were in bloom, delicately scented; the mag^ 


VIOLA HUDSON 


36 

nolias showed great creamy white cups amid their 
dark polished leaves. The air flowing in from sea 
and lagoon was divinely fresh. 

Lady Bethnell never spoke of going home. Her 
lord remained obdurate—it really looked this time 
as if he did not intend to give way even to recover 
peace and harmony. The friendship between the 
two women deepened daily. They met and made 
numerous friends, and went out a good deal. Viola 
was greatly admired. People used to ask who that 
lovely English girl was. Lady Bethnell fussed over 
her, delighted that she should prove a success. 
Then one day in the midst of it all a brief note came 
from Ardlesham. 

“Esme writes he has had a touch of fever. I have 
cabled to him to come home; he is to pass through 
Venice and bring you on with him.” 

It was abrupt enough, but Lady Bethnell could 
read between the lines, and knew that it had not 
been written without emotion. The tough dour old 
man could yield handsomely when he chose. That 
thought of telling Esme to pass through Venice so as 
to join his mother and bring her home was so char¬ 
acteristic of him in his better moments. 

Lady Bethnell took the note in her hand and ran 
unceremoniously into Viola’s room. In her flushed 
excitement she seemed to have shed twenty years. 

“Dear child—Esme is coming home—he’s to stop 
here and pick me up on his way!” 

She dropped into a chair, panting a little. Viola’s 
face fell. The news that brought so much joy to 
Lady Bethnell would abruptly terminate this deli¬ 
cious glimpse of life. The next moment she accused 
herself of egoism, and concealing all visible signs of 
disappointment she rose and went across the room 
to Lady Bethnell. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


37 

“This is indeed an answer to all your prayers!” 
she said lightly. But the lump in her throat hurt 
her. 

Lady Bethnell, now quite overcome, was sobbing. 
“Oh, my dear, you can't think what this means to 
me! I haven’t seen him for more than two years. 
Bethnell can be an angel if he likes, can’t he? I’m 
going to send him a telegram at once to tell him what 
a darling he is. My own dear boy . . 

“I wonder how soon he’ll be here,” said Viola. 

She was thinking: “When he comes we shall leave 
at once, of course. She won’t mind—she only thinks 
of her son . . .” 

She was envious of this maternal obsession. It 
would be wonderful to be loved, as Esme was loved. 
It was a love that had been wholly missing from 
her own life since she was six years old. 

“I’m so glad—so very glad that you’re to have 
him back,” she continued, softly. 

“Oh, Viola, it’s wonderful! And I’d nearly given 
up hoping! I’m so glad that you’ll see him, my 
dear.” 

“Yes, but when he comes I shall go. You won’t 
want me then.” 

She was smiling. 

“Oh, you mustn’t go till we do. We shall all 
travel back together directly he’s rested. He’ll want 
to stay a few days, perhaps, and see Venice, if he’s 
Tvell enough. But we must get home as soon as we 
can—I owe that to Bethnell. He wants to see Esme 
again just as much as I do, in his own queer way.” 

Lady Bethnell lost no time in making preparations 
for her son’s arrival. He could not possibly come 
for another three weeks, nevertheless she was in a 
frenzy of anticipatory fuss from the moment she re¬ 
ceived her husband’s letter. Viola entered whole¬ 
heartedly into these unnecessary activities, .although 
she secretly dreaded Esme’s arrival. She felt sure 


VIOLA HUDSON 


33 

that he wouldn’t like her now. She was young and 
ignorant, and he was a man of the world, accom¬ 
plished, experienced. She pictured him blase, indif¬ 
ferent, bent perhaps on making a brilliant and am¬ 
bitious marriage. It might even be that he had 
forgotten her altogether. A child he had once 
played with, bullied, patronized. . . . “Not half a 
bad little kid . . She wondered if Lady Beth- 
nell in her letters had mentioned the fact that Viola 
Hudson was traveling with her. 

But whether he liked her or not, his coming would 
sound the inevitable knell of departure. 


CHAPTER IV 

E SME arrived late one night. Viola had gone 
to bed, but her room was near the entrance 
hall, and she heard the stir of footsteps and voices, 
the thud of boxes, the slight commotion that signi¬ 
fied his arrival. She was glad, on the whole, not 
to be obliged to witness the meeting between him 
and his mother. She was wakeful and could not 
sleep, and a kind of excitement possessed her. Her 
thoughts flowed around Esme, but always it was the 
boy she had once known who possessed them, not 
the man whom she had never seen, and who seemed 
an even greater stranger because of that early in¬ 
timacy. 

Of course, she would find him greatly altered. 
He must know now, however, that she was with 
Lady Bethnell; he would pretend at any rate that 
he remembered her. She began to wish that she 
had left before he came. They wouldn’t want her 
now. Lady Bethnell never wanted anyone in the 
world when she had her adored son with her. She 
would regret too, perhaps, that she had said cer- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


39 

tain things—things that it was almost embarrassing 
for Viola to remember. 

Esme . . . not a bad little kid. She didn’t yell 
when she fell down and hurt herself . . . Viola 
smiled a little grimly. She still didn’t yell when she 
was hurt. 

She tossed from side to side. She wished she 
could postpone her meeting with Esme. Perhaps 
he would be annoyed to find her there. When morn¬ 
ing dawned she was almost feverish from want of 
sleep. She sprang out of bed, and looked at herself 
anxiously in an old cloudy Venetian mirror that gen¬ 
erally softened and flattered the face she offered 
to it. But this morning her pale ghost-like aspect 
with the dark-rimmed eyes annoyed her. She was 
angry with herself for letting Esme’s arrival give 
her a sleepless night. She went across hastily to 
the window and flung it open. It was a clear beau¬ 
tiful day, very still and chill, with a hint of Alpine 
snows in the air. Opposite to her, the row of fine 
old palaces was reflected in the Canal, with all their 
gray and gold and rose-colored tints. Already the 
gondolas were astir. She wondered what Esme 
would think of it all, whether its loveliness would 
appeal to him. He had always been capricious in 
his tastes, often admiring things and people that to 
her had seemed quite ugly. 

She dressed and went down into the little garden, 
feeling a sudden longing for fresh air. The scent 
of the roses mingled deliciously with the cool brack¬ 
ish wind. She wondered if Esme was still asleep. 
What he would say to her when they did meet. 
Perhaps they would not see each other until the mid¬ 
day meal. It would be quite easy to keep out of his 
way until then. Especially, as it was Sunday. Lady 
Bethnell wouldn’t be likely to accompany Viola to 
Mass that morning. She would want to be with her 
son, petting him, unwisely adoring him. . . . 


40 


VIOLA HUDSON 


As she walked to St. Mark’s that morning, Viola 
could not help hoping that Lady Bethnell had been 
discreet in what she had said of her to Esme. But 
supposing she had said: “Viola’s a very pretty girl 
and I’m quite devoted to her. But you must re¬ 
member that she’s a Catholic and has very little 
money.’’ Did mothers ever say things like that to 
their sons? More probably she had only said in 
her careless, blunt way: “Viola Hudson is with me. 
You remember the little girl at Ardlesham? You 
used to play with her sometimes.’’ She could pic¬ 
ture Esme frowning a little and saying, “Viola? 
Viola? Yes, I think I do remember the name.” 
So much water had flowed beneath the bridges since 
then, that it was unlikely he would recollect more 
than the mere name. 

She lingered a little in St. Mark’s when High 
Mass was over. The singing had thrilled her. 
There had been a great number of tourists of all 
nations present, and Viola had found a quiet re¬ 
mote corner where she could remain unseen and 
attentive in the shadows. The prospect of return¬ 
ing almost immediately to her old life in Percival’s 
house at South Kensington seemed less attractive 
than ever. She would need all her new strength 
and fervor to make a success of it. She wanted 
to do her duty by the children, Lionel and Margery. 
She must show Cecily that these few months of pure 
pleasure hadn’t done her harm. When she rose 
from her knees she felt oddly comforted. Yes, it 
had been beautiful, and she had enjoyed every hour 
of her Venetian life. She seemed to be saying good- 
by to it. If Esme proved in a hurry to get back 
to Ardlesham, they might leave on the morrow. 
Lady Bethnell never studied her own convenience 
where her son was concerned. 

When Viola came out from the cool shadows into 
the bright blinding glare of the Piazza, she saw 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 i 

Lady Bethriell and Esme walking toward her. He 
was perhaps unusually tall, and when he lifted his 
hat she saw that his hair was still as thick and 
crinkly as ever, though it was no longer so flaxen- 
fair. His green eyes looked strangely light, set in 
that deeply tanned face. With that brown face he 
should have had dark eyes and hair. She would not 
have known him again except perhaps for the pecul¬ 
iar color of his eyes. Otherwise he had completely 
changed, and indeed he looked old for his two and 
twenty years. She went up to them, perfectly cool 
and unembarrassed, now that the moment had actu¬ 
ally come, and held out her hand to him. 

“We do know each other, don’t we?” she said, 
with a smile. 

She looked adorably pretty. 

“But of course we do,” said Esme. “I was won¬ 
dering if you’d remember me—you were such a very 
little girl in those days.” 

He smiled at her, and his face when he smiled 
was very pleasant and lost the rather hard, deter¬ 
mined look she had noticed upon it at first. 

Lady Bethnell took her hand. 

“Viola’s been the dearest little companion to me,” 
she said, affectionately. 

They walked in silence toward St. Mark’s. 

“You’ve been to Mass, of course, Viola?” said 
Lady Bethnell, presentlv. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I remember you were brought up a Catho¬ 
lic,” said Esme. “I remember I used to chaff you 
about having to go to confession. All the same, I 
was jolly glad I hadn’t got to go myself.” 

“Poor Miss Malleson was quite fanatical,” said 
Lady Bethnell. “I fully expected dear Viola would 
give up all that when she was released from her 
control.” 

Viola said almost coldly, “It isn’t a thing one can 
give up.” 


42 


VIOLA HUDSON 


She looked up sharply at Esme as she spoke, for, 
tall as she was, he stood nearly a head above her. 
She thought that his eyes had the clear green look 
of sea-water just where the wave is about to break 
into foam. They held her fascinated. It was this 
very peculiarity that made her see now with a kind 
of fatal distinctness the boy Esme in this strange 
man. It linked the tw~o personalities together. 
Would he still hurt her carelessly and then praise 
her for not crying out? “You’d have got me into 
a row if you’d yelled. The old man’s in an awful 
wax with me to-day.” He had always had a finely 
cultivated instinct of self-preservation. . . . 

Looking back, it was rather wonderful to find 
that the memory of his charm should have so sur¬ 
vived across the more sinister impression of his 
egoism. But it had survived, and it made their 
meeting a significant one for her. 

He had played an important part in that rather 
loveless child-life of hers. After her aunt’s death, 
when she had left Ardlesham, she had missed him 
fiercely, even painfully. And yet their friendship 
had not been a smooth or equable one. That epi¬ 
sode, for instance, when she had fallen from a high 
branch of a tree they had been forbidden to climb. 
Her bleeding arm and grazed knees, and cut fore¬ 
head. Her silence while Esme roughly staunched 
the wounds, dipping his handkerchief in a stream. 
The stealthy conveying of her home, out of sight 
of his father. The whipping subsequently admin¬ 
istered by Miss Malleson at the sight of a ruined 
frock, regardless of the child’s considerable injuries. 
It all stood out clearly in her memory. She hadn’t 
told Esme about the whipping. 

^ They made a brief tour of the church, just to give 
Esme a glimpse of the exquisite decoration of those 
incomparable mosaics, flaming like dim jewels in 
that subdued light. Viola had made a fairly close 


VIOLA HUDSON 


43 


study of them and could answer his questions accu¬ 
rately and without hesitation. Once when they had 
become accidentally separated from Lady Bethnell, 
he turned to her suddenly and said: 

“It’s awful luck finding you here. I hope my 
mother hasn’t been too exacting?” 

“She’s been everything that is most kind,” whis¬ 
pered Viola. 

“I’m glad of that,” said Esme. 

Presently they left St. Mark’s and went across 
the Piazza toward the Riva degli Schiavoni. It 
was a day of pearl and fiery opal; the lagoon was 
like a vast milky lake under a colorless sky. 

Viola gathered from their conversation that Esme 
was in a hurry to return to Ardlesham; after his pro¬ 
longed Eastern exile his nostalgia was all for Eng¬ 
land. Venice was beautiful, but he didn’t want 
Venice just then. He w r anted the gray English 
skies, the drip of rain, the meadows deep in grass 
and flowers, the cuckoo calling from copse and 
woodland, the dim sheets of wild hyacinths spread¬ 
ing their fragrant carpet. 

Ardlesham! Viola felt she would have minded 
leaving Venice far, far less if she too had been go¬ 
ing back to Ardlesham. She seemed to sec the old 
gray Tudor house with its stone mullioned windows, 
its setting of dim woods, its spreading lawns, and 
summer riot of roses. 

“And you must have seen everything there is to 
be seen here, ages ago, haven’t you, Mum?” he said, 
linking his arm in Lady Bethnell’s. 

“My dear boy, I want to do exactly what suits 

you best!” 

“And Ardlesham suits me best at this moment. 
Miss Hudson—“he hesitated a little before pro¬ 
nouncing the name, as if it were unfamiliar to him— 
“will think me a Philistine.” 

“You mustn’t call her ‘Miss Hudson’—her name’s 



VIOLA HUDSON 


44 

‘Viola.’ ” Lady Bethnell glanced at them. She felt 
proud of them both, of their good looks, their air 
of distinction, their splendid height. 

“Viola, then. I was half afraid—” He looked 
at Viola and smiled. “I shouldn’t dare bully you 
now,” he added. 

“Oh, I’m quite used to being bullied,” she said, 
laughing. 

“Where do you live now? Where’s your home? 
You disappeared altogether, I remember, after Miss 
Malleson died.” 

“I live in London with my brother Percival.” 

A mental picture of the big gloomy house in South 
Kensington rose before her eyes. Soon its great 
front door would open to receive her. It would be 
like going back to prison, to a subterranean prison, 
after this delicious sojourn in the upper air. 

“Judging by your face,” he remarked, “I should 
say it wasn’t a particularly joyful spot.” 

“It isn’t,” she acknowledged. “This has been a 
divine holiday, and I’m afraid I shall hate London 
more than ever when I go back to it. I have never 
cared for London.” 

Esme wished that his mother would invite Viola 
down to Ardlesham; he meant to suggest it a little 
later on. It would be quite pleasant reconstructing 
the past with this exquisitely beautiful young crea¬ 
ture. And as Lady Bethnell was obviously very 
much attached to her—she often took these fancies 
to young girls as if to compensate herself for her 
own lack of daughters—he felt that he would have 
no difficulties to encounter. 

But here he was entirely wrong. Lady Bethnell 
would have given her son the shoes from her feet 
if they had been of any use to him; but to invite a 
penniless Catholic girl to the house and thus to en¬ 
courage a friendship between these two eminently 
attractive young persons, did not come, in her opin- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


45 

ion, within the normal range of possibilities. Be¬ 
sides, there was that girl living near Ardlesham 
whom she sincerely hoped Esme would marry. It 
was partly on this account that she had striven so 
valiantly with her husband to secure his return to 
England that summer. Isolde Clethorpe was the 
orphan niece of old Sir Timothy Clethorpe, whose 
estate adjoined theirs. She was enormously wealthy, 
quite young, and, for an heiress, good-looking. No 
parents to interfere. Lady Bethnell wouldn’t have 
liked Esme to be pestered with “in-laws.” An uncle 
hardly counted; besides, she had sounded him and 
he was quite in favor of the match, if the “young 
people” should take a fancy to each other. 

Esme was in happy ignorance of this maternal 
design to deprive him of his liberty. Later on 
when they were alone he remembered to suggest 
to his mother that she should invite Viola to Ardle¬ 
sham. “I feel my coming here has shortened her 
holiday, and I think we ought to make it up to her,” 
he added, mendaciously. 

“Your father is more disagreeable than ever 
about visitors, unless they are very old friends.” 

“Well, Viola is a very old friend,” he remarked. 

Lady Bethnell shook her head. 

“Not in his sense. I don’t expect he even remem¬ 
bers her existence.” 

Esme felt ruffled at her refusal, and he was con¬ 
vinced, from her manner of dismissing the subject, 
that however much she liked having Viola LIudson 
as a companion in Venice, she did not feel the slight¬ 
est eagerness to welcome her to Ardlesham as a 
guest. But he did not pursue the subject. To 
betray any eagerness would be a false move, re¬ 
vealing an interest in the girl that would be little 
likely to elicit parental approval. They were anx¬ 
ious he should marry of course, but it must prefer¬ 
ably be someone of their own choice. Rich, well- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 6 

born, charming, and a member of the Church of 
England like the servants . . . the housekeeper had 
orders not to admit any of alien religions. An ob¬ 
scure incident of the dismissal of a gardener’s boy 
who was suddenly discovered to be a Papist, floated 
nebulously through Esme’s brain. Like his mother, 
he rather wondered why Viola hadn’t given up all 
that sort of thing once she was released from the 
tyrannous rule of Miss Malleson. Lie remembered 
the elderly aunt quite well, an alarming tight-lipped 
lady who, when he had brought the child hastily 
home with bruised knees and cut forehead and torn 
raiment, had only observed ominously: “Viola 
knows the consequences of disobedience.” It had 
made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Discipline 
in the ’eighties was more rigorous than it is to-day, 
and even for that remote epoch Miss Malleson’s 
interpretation of it was old-fashionedly severe. She 
regarded Viola’s fearless, obstinate spirit as a dan¬ 
gerous one that must be subdued at any cost. Esme 
had gone away feeling conscience-stricken and rather 
miserable. He, the chief offender, escaped scot-free, 
although Miss Malleson’s grim glance had convinced 
him of guilt. Well, it had all happened more than 
seven years ago, and Viola had emerged quite won¬ 
derfully from the chrysalis condition of childhood. 
What a success she would be in India! Such beauty 
and grace as that, could never pass unnoticed. He 
sighed . . . 

During luncheon that day he turned to her sud¬ 
denly and said: 

“Do you remember the day we climbed the cedar 
tree and you fell off and hurt yourself?” 

“Yes. Do you?” She smiled delightedly. He 
wasn’t going to pretend then that he had forgotten 
those childish escapades. 

“I bustled you home because I was so afraid my 
father would see you. I got off scot-free. And your 


VIOLA HUDSON 


47 

aunt was very angry—I hated yielding you up to her 
tender mercies.” 

“It was the last time she whipped me,” said Viola 
soberly; “she was taken ill the following week.” 

All that part of her life was etched indelibly 
in her memory. The sudden illness, the hushed 
house, her own loneliness when no one had time 
to consider her at all, much less to scold and punish 
her. Then the being taken one morning into the 
big bedroom, scene of so much retribution, to see 
Miss Malleson lying there, pale, motionless, 
changed, with candles burning at each side of the 
bed. Her first sight of death—always a momentous 
moment for an imaginative, impressionable child. 
She was told to kneel down and pray. She had 
obeyed, but all the time she had an imperative long¬ 
ing to flee from those dumb closed lips, those sight¬ 
less eyes, those pale clasped hands . . . She felt a 
strange fear of her even in death. Then came the 
funeral, the journey to Woolwich under the care of 
George, who seemed such a stranger although he 
was her own brother. Then the new home, the new 
scenes, the neglect, the loneliness, until Percival had 
suggested they should send her to a convent school. 
She had been very happy there. 

Esme had unconsciously linked that part of her 
life with the present. She had only once seen him 
since the episode of the torn frock on the day when 
she had gone up to say good-by to the Bethnells. 
And he had kissed her—he had seemed sorry for her. 

So they were not strangers. There was that past 
remembered intimacy of shared adventures and mis¬ 
fortunes and absurd fantastic pleasures wherein 
Esme had always been the leader, and Viola the 
submissive, obedient little follower. 

“I always rest for an hour after lunch,” observed 
Lady Bethnell, as she rose from the table; “I don’t 
sleep, of course.” 


48 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Esme laughed. “Of course you don’t, old dear,” 
he said, twining his arm about her. “You needn’t 
tell us that. No self-respecting person ever admits 
to sleeping in the day-time. But while you’re rest¬ 
ing, I hope Viola will come out with me in a gon¬ 
dola.” 

It was a bold suggestion, and Viola was taken 
by surprise. She glanced swiftly at Lady Bethnell, 
who was not unaware of the eager appeal in the 
girl’s eyes. 

“I’m sure she will. You mustn’t lose this lovely 
afternoon. And you’ve so little time.” 

Esme must really have all he asked—in reason— 
to-day, the first day of his visit. Lady Bethnell felt 
that she must not spoil his evident pleasure in see¬ 
ing Viola again. They would be going back to 
Ardlesham so soon, that there was really no time 
for any harm to be done. Viola would soon pass 
utterly out of his life. 

Esme breathed a sigh of relief. He had fully 
expected opposition and was astonished that none 
was forthcoming. He would spend the whole after¬ 
noon on the lagoon with Viola. It was an enchant¬ 
ing prospect. 

“Shall we start at half past two? Will that be 
too early for you?” he asked. 

“Oh, I shall be ready,” said Viola. 


CHAPTER V 

HpHE May afternoon was very warm. The 
A waters of the lagoon sparkled as if millions of 
diamonds had been scattered upon them. 

Viola wore a white coat and skirt, with a straw 
hat tilted over her brow in a bygone mode. Be- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


49 

neath the hat her dark thick hair showed luxuriantly. 

“If we have any disastrous adventures to-day,” 
said Esme, “there’s no one to punish us.” He 
smiled, showing very even white teeth. 

They sat together under the awning, watching the 
perfect poise and movements of the gondolier. 

Suddenly Viola said: “You’ve made me think of 
Ardlesham. I’ve never been back there.” 

“Some day you must come,” said Esme. 

“I hated my childhood after my mother died,” 
said Viola. “Did you ever hate yours?” 

“Oh, no, I had a decent time enough,” said Esme, 
slightly surprised at the confession. “My mother 
always spoilt me. She never cared what I did as 
long as it didn’t come to my father’s ears. What 
discipline for a boy! And it’s just the same now.” 

“It must be lovely having a mother,” said Viola. 
“Mine died when I was six. I can remember her 
quite well, for I was always with her, and she was 
so wonderful. I used to cry for her long after I 
went to live with Miss Malleson.” 

He looked at her. “How awfully rough on you. 
You were rather a forlorn little kid, I remember. 
But you’d got heaps of pluck—nothing seemed to 
scare you.” 

“Yes, I wasn’t afraid, even of Aunt Hope. I 
seemed to realize she was trying to do her duty. 
And, after all, she did what she could for me. She 
brought me up a Catholic, and she left me all the 
money she had. Not a great deal, you know—but 
still something.” 

“And you’ve stuck to being a Catholic?” he said. 

“Yes. I’m grateful to her for that,” said Viola, 
softly. 

Esme paused for a moment, and then said almost 
indignantly: “Still, she’d absolutely no right. . . . 
Another person’s child!” 

“She only took me on that condition. And no 


50 


VIOLA HUDSON 


one else wanted me.” She made the simple little 
statement without bitterness. “She was my father’s 
aunt, and she was hard and despotic but very upright 
and conscientious. She was a convert, and had suf¬ 
fered a good deal when she became a Catholic—I 
think that made her hard.” 

“Whatever her treatment of you may have been, 
it’s turned out all right,” said Esme. His look was 
full of flattery, and the tones of his voice had be¬ 
come suddenly low and tender. “You were a darling 
little girl, Viola. But I never thought you’d grow 
up into anything so perfectly lovely.” 

“Oh, nonsense, I’m nothing of the kind,” she said, 
resenting something in his manner that seemed 
almost too intimate and familiar. She felt, too, that 
Lady Bethnell would certainly disapprove of such 
direct compliments. 

“And, then, you’ve completely won the old lady’s 
heart,” he added. 

“I’m so glad you think she likes me. I’m de¬ 
voted to her.” 

“Yes, she’s an old dear, isn’t she? She’s won my 
everlasting devotion by being the most injudicious 
parent in the world.” Esme secretly wondered, as 
he said this, how far her indulgence could be counted 
upon if he announced his intention of making an im¬ 
prudent marriage. With someone like Viola Hud¬ 
son, for instance. 

She was beginning to take shape in his thoughts as 
the woman he had always wished to marry. But 
that religion of hers . . . Such an unnecessary 
stumbling-block. And yet it was almost the only 
thing about Miss Malleson that she didn’t seem 
either to regret or resent. 

“I really don’t see any necessity for going home 
at once, after all,” he said, presently. “I might just 
as well see the place thoroughly while I am here. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


5i 

And I don’t feel nearly so homesick for Ardlesham 
as I did.” 

“Won’t your father mind?” she said, doubtfully. 

The change in his attitude was sudden enough 
to arouse conjecture, but, then, he had always been 
capricious. 

“He may be rather passionate at first, but that’ll 
soon blow over. And in the meantime we can have 
a simply ripping time together here, Viola.” 

So it v r as for her sake that he wished to stay. 
She had begun to suspect it, and now his words had 
made it quite clear. The renewal of the old friend¬ 
ship was perhaps beginning to disclose a sweetness 
that he had not anticipated. But Viola saw things 
differently. She was afraid both for herself and 
for him. She sat there in silence, troubled and per¬ 
plexed, and yet with a strange secret happiness in 
her heart. 

The gondola skimmed swiftly over the surface of 
the water. Heavy, almost clumsy, as it was, it re¬ 
sponded like a sentient thing to that solitary guide 
with his single oar. They were passing now through 
narrow 7 intricate canals, spanned by white bridges, 
where torrents of roses flowed over the walls of 
ancient palaces that rose sheer from the jade-green 
water. Overhead they could see narrow blue spaces 
of sky, pierced perhaps by a slim tow^er leaning 
faintly aslant as do so many of the church towers 
of Venice. Then out once more upon the broad 
pale bosom of the lagoon, dotted near and far with 
islands smothered in their gay spring verdure. It 
was an unreal world, a place of phantasy, beautiful 
as a dream. It was the very setting for Viola, en¬ 
hancing her loveliness, bestowing a touch of ro¬ 
mance upon this meeting of the two old playmates. 

There w 7 ere forces at work with which Lady 
Bethnell had not reckoned. 

Once Viola suggested that they ought to return. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


52 

But Esme shook his head. His enjoyment of the 
hour was far too exquisite, and he was determined 
not to shorten it. If his mother proved obdurate 
they might even leave Venice on the morrow. And 
once in England it would not be so easy for him 
to see Viola again. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking of,” said Esme, 
suddenly. 

“When people ask me that, it drives every 
thought out of my head,” she answered, laughing. 

“I wanted you to be thinking how perfectly lovely 
this is!” 

“Well, perhaps I was!” 

“We might go out again after dinner,” said 
Esme; “there’ll be a moon. Would you like that? 
Would you come, Viola?” 

“I should like it, but I’m afraid your mother 
wouldn’t venture—she’s afraid of chills—we haven’t 
been in a gondola once at night.” 

“Oh, she wouldn’t be likely to come,” said Esme. 
“Besides, I want to go alone with you.” 

“I don’t think she’d care for us to leave her 
again,” said Viola, lamely. Her tone was harassed 
by doubt. While she wished to be absolutely loyal 
to Lady Bethnell, she w r as aware that Esme was 
beginning to make this difficult of accomplishment. 
He seemed to take it for granted that their old child¬ 
ish friendship was to be resumed, bridging over in 
a few hours the seven years of separation. But— 
he must not fall in love with her, nor wish to marry 
her. Lady Bethnell had made the situation so clear 
and explicit, long before the question of his coming 
to Venice had arisen. She must remember those 
words—almost of warning. Lady Bethnell had a 
real affection for her, nevertheless she had shown 
her that such a marriage was impossible. Absurd, 
perhaps, to be considering the matter seriously after 
a few hours of renewed acquaintance, still something 


VIOLA HUDSON 


53 

in Esme’s manner had forced it upon her. And she 
could only remember that he had been the hero of 
all her childish dreams. She had loved him, as a 
little girl. Why shouldn’t she love him now in all 
the splendor of his early manhood? . . . 

“We must ask your mother’s permission,” she 
said. She felt certain that Lady Bethnell would 
veto the plan. And again that growing sense of dis¬ 
loyalty possessed her. “She shan’t come between 
us—she shan’t separate us,” she thought. 

“Must we? You wouldn’t go without?” he asked. 
His indolent voice was very attractive. 

“Of course not. How could I?” 

“Such things have been done,” said Esme. 

“You mustn’t ask me to go against your mother,” 
she said, firmly. 

She was adorable, he thought, with this little 
touch of primness, of determination. 

Had she been born thirty years later, Viola would 
have welcomed the little plan without questioning 
its feasibility, or recognizing the right of anyone to 
veto it. A moonlight voyaging on the lagoon would 
have been achieved without comment. But the stir 
that made for the emancipation of women from the 
old chains, was then only manifesting itself spo¬ 
radically. A voice here and there could be heard 
perhaps, uplifted in pitiful and isolated protest. 
Viola was not of these. She had been brought up 
in a conventional school, and she still retained a 
wholesome respect for the opinions of others. 

“You’re really making me believe in the efficacy 
of Miss Malleson’s system of education!” he told 
her, laughing. 

“Viola knows the consequences of disobedience!” 
She mimicked the ominous little phrase. It was 
rather hard on the dead woman, but she wanted to 
divert Esme’s thoughts to another channel. 

“There’d be no consequences now—unless you 


54 


VIOLA HUDSON 


caught a cold. And that would only help to defer 
our journey!” 

“You must ask Lady Bethnell. If she says ‘yes,’ 
I’ll come. There is really no reason why we 
shouldn’t go.” 

He had to be satisfied. But he knew quite well 
that to go to his mother with that request on his 
lips would only serve to arouse afresh her suspicions. 
She might not say anything to him—she was too 
cautious for that—but she might say something 
very much to the point to Viola. And as she had 
brought the girl with her from England as a kind 
of unpaid companion, she enjoyed a certain 
authority. 

He could almost hear the agonized maternal 
duckings. It was rather absurd to return home to 
this measure of tutelage after those long free years 
in India when he had done exactly as he chose. 

But Venice and moonlight . . . and Viola. It 
was as nearly perfect as imagination could paint. He 
felt inclined to say with Browning: 

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? 

Sitting there with that detached, almost brooding, 
look on her face, she seemed in a sense unaware of 
him. He wished he could have known those thoughts 
of hers. And he would have liked her to show much 
more eagerness in his little plan. Not to be quite so 
insistent about this question of permission. But that 
religion of hers naturally tended to make her scrupu¬ 
lous and conscientious. It was characteristic of Esme 
that he never considered the Catholic Church apart 
from the confessional—that was to him its single 
salient feature. And when he thought of that, it was 
with something of recoil. 

When Esme said at dinner that night: “Viola and 
I are contemplating a trip by moonlight on the 



VIOLA HUDSON 


55 


lagoon,” Lady Bethnell gave the girl a quick, curious 
glance, as if she half suspected her of having origi¬ 
nated the suggestion. 

Like a parent bird she discerned danger from 
afar. 

“I am certainly not going to risk rheumatism in 
my aged limbs,” she observed, dryly. 

“Of course you’re not, you darling old thing! 
We’re going alone—just as we did this afternoon. 
I assure you the gondolier makes a most efficient 
chaperon.” 

Esme’s green eyes danced. All his life his mother 
had known the meaning of that sudden gleam. He 
would take his pleasure regardless of consequence, 
and in the subsequent concealment of his delinquency 
she, most ironically, had to assist him. She choked 
back her disapproval, inwardly condemning Viola 
for having encouraged the scheme. 

“Well, I hope you’ll both enjoy it,” she said. 

She was wounded, too, that he showed so little 
desire for her society. Quite obviously he wished to 
be with Viola. Well, there was no help for it. And 
they would be starting for England almost at once. 
The affair could quite easily be nipped in the bud. 

Nevertheless, she had a word with Esme after 
dinner when they were alone. “My dear boy—do 
mind what you’re about. Of course, there’s no one 
to see you and gossip . . . but Viola’s in my care.” 

Esme put his arms round her neck, kissing, cajol¬ 
ing her. 

“Why, I’ve known her since she was a tiny kid. 
It’s been like meeting a long-lost sister!” 

“Has it?” Her tone was indescribably dry. “You 
must get Viola to accept that fraternal attitude, 
then.” 

“Viola is eminently teachable!” His eyes danced. 
But his aspect spelt mischief. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


56 

“Oh, my dear boy—I hoped you had learnt wis¬ 
dom in India.” 

“So I have. I’ve come out of it alive and free. 
Few can say as much ! After nearly three years of it 
I’m still unmarried!” 

“I won’t have you make Viola unhappy.” 

“That’s the last thing I’d care to do.” His tone 
was suddenly serious. “I say, Mum, why didn’t you 
tell me she was so beautiful?” 

“I never think in those exaggerated terms. Viola 
is a nice, fresh-looking girl.” 

He groaned. “Why, she’s perfect! That brow 
of hers—” 

Lady Bethnell concealed with an effort the per¬ 
turbation of spirit aroused by his words. But it was 
her own fault. She had brought them together. 
She ought to have obeyed her own instinct and des¬ 
patched Miss Hudson home the moment she knew 
that her son was coming. 

“I’m so glad you’re so fond of her,” he added. 

“I have always taken an interest in Viola since she 
was a little girl.” 

“That’s why I want you to be very kind and ask 
her down to Ardlesham.” His voice was very soft 
and persuasive. 

“I must see. Things are a little different, now 
you’re both grown up. I let you play together when 
you were children because she was such a lonely little 
thing and I always thought Miss Malleson was too 
severe with her. But now—” She looked at her 
son almost appealingly. Surely he must understand, 
without her telling him, that it would be both impru¬ 
dent and unwise for him to show particular attention 
now to an ineligible girl. 

He had only been a few hours in Venice and yet 
he was apparently bent on embarking upon a foolish 
flirtation that obviously could come to nothing. 

“Don’t be out too late,” she said, suddenly. “You 


VIOLA HUDSON 


57 

mustn’t tire Viola. She’ll be busy packing to-mor¬ 
row, for we shall start by the night mail.” 

“By the night mail!” echoed Esme, dismayed. 

“Why, of course. You said you wanted to get 
back to Ardlesham at once.” 

“But r ve thought it over, and I’ve come to the 
conclusion that I’d better stay here a few days longer 
and see Venice thoroughly while I am about it!” 

“You must consider your father. Ele wants you 
home as soon as possible!” 

“He has never shown such a violent desire for my 
society as all that,” remarked Esme, coolly. 

He got up and left her and went into the little 
sitting-room, where he found Viola writing. The 
light from a yellow-shaded lamp enveloped her with 
a soft golden glow; it illuminated her hair, and the 
delicate profile, which was all that he could see of 
her face. 

He advanced toward her almost stealthily. 

“I don’t believe she likes our going a little bit,” he 
said, carelessly. 

Viola laid down her pen. She was writing to 
Cecily to tell her that she would probably arrive 
home in a few days’ time. Something of the depres¬ 
sion she felt at the prospect showed in her face. 

“Oh, then let's give it up. I hate annoying 
people.” 

After all, she owed a great deal to Lady Bethnell 
for giving her this radiant glimpse of another world. 

“Well, you'd annoy me frightfully if you refused 
to come,” said Esme, drawing up a chair and sitting 
so that he could see her with the golden light falling 
on her face. 

“That wouldn’t matter,” said Viola, smiling. 

“Don't let’s waste this perfect hour with useless 
argument. Do you mean to come or not?” His 
voice held an alluring tone. Just like that, he had 
always encouraged her to follow him into primrose 


VIOLA HUDSON 


58 

paths of forbidden pleasures. But he was irresistible 
now as he had been then. She answered coldly: 
“Very well, I’ll come.” 

She left unfinished the letter to Cecily. 


CHAPTER VI 

V IOLA put on a close-fitting hat, and enveloped 
herself, for she was wearing a thin evening 
dress, in a huge white Venetian shawl. When she 
appeared arrayed thus, she looked almost phantom¬ 
like with her pale cameo face, her dark eyes. Excite¬ 
ment had tinged her cheeks. Her eyes were very 
bright. Esme gazed at her approvingly. 

“You look ripping in all that white stuff,” he said. 
They went downstairs. The porter opened the 
great portone for them to pass through. Outside, 
the fondamenta was very narrow, there was but a 
step or two between them and the water. They 
could hear the rhythmic swish of it against the 
stones. Here in the shadow of the old palace it was 
ebony-colored. The cool darkness of the night 
swam about them. 

Esme stepped down into the gondola and gave his 
hand to Viola, holding hers firmly while she joined 
him. The gondolier gave his loud, weird warning 
cry, and they sped under the bridge. They passed 
down narrow, shadow-darkened canals, emerging 
opposite the Giudecca, with the great dome of the 
Church of the Redeemer rising blackly against 
the moon-washed sky. They were in an ethereal 
world whose colors were pale silver and deep ebony, 
mysterious, fantastic, with a beauty that was almost 
terrifying. 

“I’m really going to persuade my mother to stay 
till the end of the week,” he said, at last. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


59 

Viola did not answer. Her eyes were fixed upon 
the wide silver lagoon that lay before them like a 
smooth sea. 

“You'd like it too, wouldn't you? You’re not in a 
hurry to go home?" 

She laughed. “If you knew my sister-in-law you’d 
hardly ask me that question. And she makes me 
teach her two unintelligent children !” 

In her heart she was rebelling against the fate 
that decreed her return to London. Cecily would 
probably exact an increased amount of work from 
her to make up for that prolonged holiday. 

“What rough luck,” he ejaculated. “Must you 
live there? Haven’t you got enough to go off on 
your own?” 

“When I’m twenty-one I shall be free. But I 
don't get the control of my money till then. And 
then I shall come and live in Venice forever!” 

“How long have you to wait?” 

“More than three years. I’m not even quite 
eighteen.” 

“Eighteen I” repeated Esme. “But I don’t fancy, 
somehow, you’ll be free in the way you mean in three 
years’ time.” 

She turned her face toward him. She had taken 
off her hat, and the sea-wind stirred the heavy dark 
hair above her brow. 

“I mean—you’ll probably be married before that 

time comes.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“You’ve never met anyone?” 

“No one.” ' , 

“But of course you will,” said Esme, with a kind 

of careless tenderness in his voice. 

She leaned back in an almost somnolent content, 
thinking: “This is happiness. Being nere lik^ this 
with Esme. Yesterday I never dreamed of such 
happiness. But of course it won t last. 


6o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Yes, it had come upon her, this extraordinary 
bliss, with a suddenness that was almost violent. It 
was rapidly changing the face of the world. She had 
believed herself perfectly happy with Lady Bethnell 
before Esme came; now she could hardly believe that 
it had been happiness at all, so flaccid and colorless 
did it seem in comparison with these hours of fan¬ 
tastic joy. She believed, too, that Esme was begin¬ 
ning to love her. Viola, without being in the least 
vain, was aware of her own beauty, and for the first 
time the knowledge gave her a sense of power. This 
man might learn to love her for her beauty. And as 
love could triumph over prudence, he might even ask 
her to be his wife . . . this cool, careless Esme, 
with his pride, his touch of conscious arrogance, 
his easy egoism. 

“I am sure you will,” he continued. “And it’s 
because I’m afraid that I’m so sure.” 

“Afraid?” She was genuinely puzzled. 

“Yes. I shouldn’t like my little playmate to be¬ 
long to someone else. I should never think anyone 
quite good enough for you, Viola.” 

She did not answer. In the stillness of that pale 
world of water and sky she seemed to be alone with 
Esme as in some beautiful passionate dream. She 
would have been quite happy had they remained in 
silence. Even the conversation of Esme disturbed 
her a little, though she liked listening to his voice. 

He gave an order to the gondolier. They were 
approaching an island, drawn in shadowy silhouette, 
with a row of gleaming lights along the little quay. 

“We’ll get off here and go for a walk,” said Esme. 

“No, no,” said Viola, “it’ll make us too late.” 

Esme laughed. 

“What does it matter how late we are?” he said. 

They landed and walked down a road that led to 
the sea. Above their heads the trees met, interlacing 
their boughs. Viola had been to the Lido several 


VIOLA HUDSON 


6 1 

times with Lady Bethnell, but always in broad day¬ 
light. She could not have believed that it could ever 
seem as now the very island of romance, although in 
those days it had not become a fashionable bathing 
resort with giant hotels and long lines of bath¬ 
ing huts. The wash of the sea sounded rhythmically, 
and presently they came in sight of it, lying there like 
a dark shadow against the sky, pricked here and 
there by the red lights of fishing vessels. The cool 
wind touched her face as she stood by Esme’s side, 
watching the little waves curling as they broke on the 
sands with a tiny glittering rim of foam. 

Esme linked his hand in her arm. Suddenly he 
bent his head and kissed her. She felt like a little 
child again, lifting her face to Esme to be kissed. 
But he moved away from her abruptly, as if that 
momentary contact had been an impulse he now 
regretted. Viola was chilled at the sudden with¬ 
drawal. She felt as if her heart had always uncon¬ 
sciously been Esme’s. Boy and man she had loved 
him. What did it matter that he had only returned 
to her that day after their long separation? 

“You must forgive me, Viola,” he said, coldly, “I 
was thinking of the old days at Ardlesham. But 
we’re too old now to play at being brother and 
sister.” 

“Yes,” she said, in a cool, proud tone. His sug¬ 
gestion of regret chilled and shamed her. She had 
counted too much upon the survival of his love. 

“It was so splendid finding you here,” he added. 
“Like old times.” 

He turned away from the sea, and Viola followed, 
keeping this time just a little behind him. She 
watched the long easy strides, the lissom athletic 
body, strong and fit, moving before her. 

The moon was high in the sky, clear and splendid 
in her frosty majesty, with the stars, her bright cour¬ 
tiers, a glittering company intricately patterned. 


62 


VIOLA HUDSON 


The sea-wind blowing in from the Adriatic sighed 
over the island, whispering among the trees. Far off 
the towers of Venice were etched softly in mist- 
colored silhouettes, with the lights of the city lying 
below them. 

Esme helped her once more into the gondola and 
they went home in silence. Not a word was said 
until they reached the palace. They mounted the 
wide marble stairs in silence. Esme fitted his latch¬ 
key into the door. He opened it, and Viola passed 
through. She seemed to him a white majestic figure, 
aloof, offended. 

“Are you angry with me?” he said, going up to 
her. 

“Not in the least. We were both very foolish.” 

Her dark eyes were stern, they surveyed him with 
a cold scrutiny. 

“But you must forgive me—for being foolish,” 
he said. 

“Don’t let’s discuss it, please.” Her tone was 
frosty. 

She felt guilty toward Lady Bethnell, as if she had 
somehow betrayed her kindness by permitting Esme 
to make love to her. But she had wanted his love. 
She had felt certain that some acknowledgment of 
love would follow that kiss. Not that sudden with¬ 
drawal, that dismayed silence, as if he had immedi¬ 
ately recognized his own indiscreet imprudence. His 
love had touched her for a second with its shining 
wing . . . and had passed on. That was all she 
would ever know of it. That one kiss, with the cold 
sea and the pale moon watching them on that de¬ 
serted island shore. Her heart rebelled afresh 
against that dour decree of separation. 

“Good-night,” she said. 

Her hand hardly touched his. She vanished 
wraith-like down the long passage that led to her 
room. The hall clock was striking one. He hoped 


VIOLA HUDSON 63 

that his mother was not aware of their late return. 

Viola cried a little when she reached her room. 
She was tired, and overwrought with all the cumu¬ 
lative excitement of the day. She dimly guessed that 
just at the very moment when Esme kissed her he 
had recognized the impossibility for him of such a 
marriage. He must have envisaged, perhaps for the 
first time, the strenuous opposition that his parents 
would undoubtedly display toward such a project. 
Divided and antagonistic as they were, they would 
present a united front before a threatened catas¬ 
trophe of the kind. And some thought such as this, 
it must have been, that had made him recoil almost 
too hastily, almost too visibly, as though from the 
embrace of a sorceress. Viola was stung and humili¬ 
ated by that shrinking gesture, it had cut her like a 
whip. She wept over that wound to her pride. And 
yet she was to blame. She had always known what 
Lady Bethnell would think of an engagement be¬ 
tween herself and Esme. She should therefore have 
been on her guard. Instead of which she had sur¬ 
rendered herself to the glamor of the moment, the 
moonlight, the whispering sea, Esme’s face bending 
down toward her own. ... 

She did not sleep, but lay awake thinking of him. 
Of course it was not to be expected that he would 
make sacrifices for her, he who in all his life had 
never made sacrifices for anyone.. The egoism of the 
spoilt, proud, wilful boy was undiminished. Indeed, 
she perceived that all the salient points of his boyish 
character were now crystallized and accentuated, the 
pride, the selfishness, the touch of meanness visible 
in an exaggerated sense of self-preservation, the easy 
enjoyment of the moment, with its disregai d of con¬ 
sequences, the complete indifference to the suffeiings 
of others. Meanness—the word hurt her, with its 
deliberate and brutal smirching of the idol. Yes, but 



VIOLA HUDSON 


64 

there had always been that attitude: “As long as 
my father doesn’t get to hear of it ... of course 
I mustn’t get into a row.” 

But no more now than it had done when she was 
a little girl did this slightly sinister attribute diminish 
her own worshiping love. He was a young god who 
must not be judged by worldly standards. Yet to¬ 
night she thought she could feel the wheels of his 
triumphal car passing over her heart, grinding it 
to dust. 

She avoided both mother and son until the mid¬ 
day breakfast on the following morning. Then she 
went into the little salotto, dressed in a cool summer 
frock of pink cambric. Lady Bethnell had given it 
to her some weeks before with the kindly words: 
“My dear—I like to see you in pink!” She was so 
slim that the rather full, bunchy skirt of that period 
did not detract from the slender grace of her form. 

Lady Bethnell and her son were sitting side by side 
near the open window. The cool breeze from the 
Grand Canal—that broad river of Venice—flowed 
into the room. 

“Good-morning, Lady Bethnell. Good-morning, 
Esme.” 

Esme had risen and came toward her with a 
curious light in his eyes. 

“My dear, why didn’t you come out with us?” 
said Lady Bethnell. 

“Oh, I was lazy after our midnight excursion,” 
replied Viola, carelessly. Her eyes did not meet 
Esme’s. 

“I hope you didn’t take cold. The night air of 
Italy is very treacherous.” 

Viola shook her head. “No—I’ve no excuse but 
sheer laziness.” 

Esme looked at her with admiration. What a 
wife she would make! She had such grit—there 
would be no crying over trifles if things didn’t go 


VIOLA HUDSON 


65 

quite smoothly. That austere bringing up of hers 
had tempered her character to a fine steel. And 
dimly across his own exaggerated self-esteem he felt 
that she would make a better man of him, should she 
ever become his wife. She stirred within him vague 
impulses toward self-sacrifice. He wished that he 
possessed something worth having, not for himself, 
but so that he might lay it at her feet. 

They sat down to luncheon. It was a typical 
Italian meal, a risotto with little surprises such as 
cocks’ combs and scraps of the liver of chickens con¬ 
cealed in it; some sliced veal with new potatoes and 
green peas; small roasted chickens served with salad. 
Cheese, fruit and coffee followed. Esme praised the 
food and wine, and his mother looked delighted at 
his approval. 

“I have taken our tickets for to-morrow night,” 
announced Lady Bethnell, toward the close of the 
meal. 

“You haven’t!” There was dismay and even a 
touch of anger in Esme’s voice. “Why, I haven’t 
half seen Venice. I wanted to stay another week. 
We can change the tickets, though, and send a tele¬ 
gram to Dad.” 

“Oh, but Esme—” 

“Oh, but Mum!” He mocked her with lips and 
eyes. 

“Your father will be seriously annoyed. And 
after cabling for you—” 

“Oh, yes, I know all that. But if we wire to-day, 
that’ll give him lots of time to get over his wrath!” 

“Esme—it isn’t treating him fairly!” 

He looked at her and laughed ironically. There 
was malice in his green eyes. 

“Are you really beginning to consider his feelings 
at last?” he inquired. 

A dull flush came into Lady Bethnell’s face. She 


66 


VIOLA HUDSON 


deserved the shaft, nevertheless it had hurt her. But 
it was not the first time that Esme had reminded her 
of her own attitude toward his father when she had 
ventured to preach filial obedience. But now—in 
front of Viola, too!— 

Why was he so anxious to stay in Venice? On his 
first arrival he had seemed in a desperate hurry to 
return to Ardlesham, had seemed to grudge even the 
few hours that must necessarily elapse before a start 
home could be made. More than ever was she con¬ 
vinced that this abrupt change of front was due to 
Viola Hudson. 

In their cool, hard indifference the young faces on 
each side of her offered no clue. 

Lady Bethnell adored Esme; she had believed her¬ 
self also to be extremely and affectionately attached 
to Viola, but now they were both with her she felt 
almost as if a subtle antagonism—directed toward 
herself as to a member of an older generation— 
emanated from them. Their very silence showed a 
dislike to the preaching of duty against the claims of 
inclination. She had expected something of the sort 
from Esme, but she had hoped better things of 
Viola. 

Aloud she only said: 

“Now you’ve come, Esme, I feel as if I couldn’t 
stand this place for another day. I want to get back 
to my garden and the dogs.” 

She could hardly remind Esme that her quarrel 
with his father had originally centered on the vexed 
question of his own return home. He was, however, 
perfectly aware of the fact, and he ought therefore 
to be able to see that Lord Bethnell had given in very 
handsomely, and it was only right that he should 
reap the full fruit of his magnanimity. 

“I suppose Viola and I could hardly stay on by 
ourselves!” said Esme, perversely. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


67 

“I should think not, indeed. Viola would in any 
case accompany me home.” 

“Of course,” said Viola, sweetly. 

Esme leaned toward his mother. 

“Are you going to spoil my leave at the very 
beginning? I want to stay here—and I don’t see 
that a week can matter, even with anyone so extraor¬ 
dinarily tiresome as Dad!” When he gazed at her 
like that, intently, his green eyes shining, Viola could 
not help thinking how curiously he resembled a cat, 
possessing, too, all a cat’s mysterious obstinacy. 

Lady Bethnell rose from the table. 

“I must think it over. You are so capricious.” 

Viola followed her out of the room, leaving Esme 
to smoke in solitude. When they were in the great 
salone with its four big windows looking down upon 
the bright waters of the Canal, Lady Bethnell said: 

“You don’t want to stay on, do you, Viola?” 

There was a faint tentative appeal in her tone. 

“Em always ready to do whatever you wish,” said 
Viola, evasively. 

“You’ve not told Esme you’d rather be here?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“We must really leave to-morrow night,” con¬ 
tinued Lady Bethnell, nervously; “he mustn’t quarrel 
with his father like that. I wish Esme would learn 
to give way a little. He never thinks of the future. 
The pleasure of the moment—that’s all that counts 
with him.” 

Viola said nothing, but mentally she assented. 
The pleasure of the moment. The truth stung her. 
Last night it had been his pleasure to kiss her. 

“He must see Isolde Clethorpe. His father and 
I are both most anxious he should marry her.” 

Viola was beginning to detest this unknown girl. 
She felt that she could picture her exactly. Pretty, 
charming, young, with all the self-confidence that 
wealth and an assured position in the world can give. 


68 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“I’m sure he’s only got to see her,” continued 
Lady Bethnell, fretfully. 

“Don’t show him that you wish for it,” said Viola, 
coolly. “It might set him against her.” 

“Yes, I think you’re right. But in this case I feel 
sure from my knowledge of Esme that he’ll like her. 
And then the money—poor boy! All this depend¬ 
ence on his father is so galling.” 

“But won’t dependence on a wife be even more 
galling?” inquired Viola. 

Lady Bethnell looked at her sharply. “What 
strange ideas of marriage you have, my dear. When 
one is married one shares everything.” 

Viola said carelessly: “I hope he will find Miss 
Clethorpe accommodating!” 

It hurt her to think of this wealthy, expensive 
little creature waiting for Esme at Ardlesham. She 
would marry him for his brand new title; he would 
marry her for her money. Love would have nothing 
to say to it at all. On reflection she was almost glad 
of that. But both young and good-looking, possess¬ 
ing the same extravagant and worldly tastes, they 
would probably get on as well—or as badly—as 
most couples. 

“Only, he’s too good for that,” thought Viola, 
with a little touch of savage envy. 

Esme came into the room. 

“Are you coming to Murano with me this after¬ 
noon?” he said, speaking to his mother. 

“No—I’ve had enough sight-seeing. And there’s 
shopping to be done.” 

“Then I must fling myself on Viola’s mercy,” he 
said. 

“I’m afraid I can’t spare her this afternoon. She 
must come with me.” 

“Nonsense—you can take Pearce,” he said, sitting 
down close to his mother. He took her hand and 



VIOLA HUDSON 


69 

fondled it. “You can’t ask Viola to waste such a 
divine afternoon in shopping. And I hate going 
about alone.” 

“I think to-day you’ll have to go alone. I really 
want Viola.” 

It was the first time Lady Bethnell had ever de¬ 
liberately interfered with the girl’s liberty, and the 
decision she now displayed was in itself indicative of 
maternal alarm. She had put the girl in his path, 
forgetting that he was not blind, and now that it 
was too late she was trying to prevent them from 
seeing too much of each other. 

“Your mother is quite right, Esme. I’ve really 
been neglecting my little duties.” Viola longed to end 
the discussion; she felt, curiously enough, annoyed 
with them both. 

“Oh, you’re against me, too? Hard luck! I’d 
counted on your support.” 

Both women were silent. Esme rose. 

“Well, I must be going. If I’m late for dinner 
don’t wait for me.” He moved indolently toward 
the door. “I hope by then you’ll have finished all 
that silly shopping.” His tone was still aggrieved. 

When they were alone Lady Bethnell said: 

“Did you want to go? Had you planned it to¬ 
gether ?” 

Viola shook her head. “I don’t care in the least 
to go, and it was the first I’d heard of it.” 

It struck her as a little odd that while Lady Beth¬ 
nell tried to conceal her suspicions from her son, she 
made no effort to hide them from Viola. Perhaps 
she considered she had made them too apparent, 
for she added, almost apologetically: 

“I really don’t like your running about Venice 
together. People might talk.” 

“I expect you’re quite right,” said Viola, icily. 


70 


VIOLA HUDSON 


CHAPTER VII 

V IOLA had felt compelled to yield in the face of 
maternal anxiety, but it had nevertheless hurt 
her to refuse Esme. Lie had gone away looking 
dejected and annoyed; probably he felt angry with 
her for her meekness. 

And there would be little opportunity for further 
expeditions together. It would be useless for him 
to suggest another trip on the lagoon by moonlight. 
His mother, now eagerly on the alert, would be 
practically certain to veto it. It was evident that she 
suspected something. . . . She needn’t be afraid, 
Viola now told herself bitterly. Esme had already 
repented of his impulsive love-making. 

In any case, for pride’s sake, she would refuse to 
accompany him again. It would be like inviting a 
repetition of that stolen, clandestine embrace—the 
first she had ever received. How eager he had been 
to show her that it meant nothing, that it was a mere 
echo of the past. . . . 

Lady Bethnell had also made it clear to both of 
them that day that Viola was her unpaid companion, 
from whom little services were demanded in ex¬ 
change for all that she had received. She was in a 
dependent position. She wasn’t on an equal footing 
with Esme. And when she reviewed this she felt 
that his arrival had abruptly changed her own rela¬ 
tions with Lady Bethnell. They were not yet 
enemies, but they were no longer so perfectly and 
harmoniously friendly. They were on their guard. 
Their hands were, so to speak, on their swords. The 
situation had lost its first simplicity. At a word 
from Esme those swords would leap from their 
scabbards. 

It was a pity, because they had now lived together 
for some months in great contentment, the older 


VIOLA HUDSON 


7i 

woman growing fonder of the younger one day by 
day. She had indeed treated her with all the con¬ 
sideration she would have shown toward a greatly 
beloved daughter. And now in less than two days 
Esme seemed to have destroyed that harmony, that 
mutual content. He had entered the old palace like 
a young whirlwind, upsetting everything in his ego¬ 
istic impetuosity. 

Outwardly the two women were still friends; 
inwardly they were watching each other, ready to 
meet move with counter move. If Esme ever per¬ 
ceived it, he said nothing, nor did he let the fact 
disturb him. But he was beginning to be aware of 
how closely Viola had guarded his boyish image in 
her heart through all the years of separation. It 
was that boy, and not the stranger he had actually 
become, whom last night she had permitted to em¬ 
brace her. He was already more than half way 
toward winning her love, and this knowledge gave 
additional zest to the situation which had, so to 
speak, sprung up to greet him. 

“I’m not really going out shopping,” said Lady 
Bethnell, when at the close of her siesta she sent her 
maid to fetch Viola. 

Viola said nothing; she concealed her surprise at 
the frank little revelation. 

“I should like you to read to me. One of those 
new short stories by the woman who writes under a 
man’s name,” she added. 

Viola fetched the book obediently. It was only 
the second time that she had been called upon to 
read aloud. Her physical health, which was perfect, 
rendered her untiring. She read to Lady Bethnell 
through the hot hours of that brilliant May after¬ 
noon. But all the time she knew that her assiduity 
was but a subtle deception. To betray unwillingness 
or disappointment would invite comment. 

Lady Bethnell was more than ever determined to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


72 

start for England on the morrow. At all costs 
Esme must be removed from the danger that threat¬ 
ened. She was almost shocked to discover how 
rapidly her own attitude toward Viola had changed. 
But she knew that a woman when she has once re¬ 
solved to win a man is a creature possessed of certain 
elemental powers that make her ride rough-shod 
over lesser affections and friendships. Swept aside 
like impending dust, these only discover themselves 
as obstacles in the path to success. 

“And she knows exactly what I feel about it—I 
showed her my hand before Esme ever came,” she 
thought. “That’s why she’s beginning to see an 
enemy in me.” 

Lady Bethnell possessed the astute instinctive 
wisdom which Nature bestows upon all mothers, 
whether human or not, for the adequate protection 
of their offspring. And she, too, felt that she could 
sweep out of the path all dangers however beautiful 
and insidious. In vain did she try to comfort herself 
with the reflection that Esme could not possibly be 
such a fool as to let himself fall seriously in love 
with a penniless Catholic girl. Of course she was 
lovely, and never had she looked so lovely as now. 
The touch of romance—as so often happens—had 
awakened her, and changed the bud to a rare blos¬ 
som. She might seem outwardly careless and indif¬ 
ferent, but that was a pose which did not in the least 
deceive Lady Bethnell. 

“Thank you very much—you read charmingly— 
you never get hoarse. Ring for tea, and then you’ll 
have a good couple of hours in which to pack before 
dinner.” The new note of authority was not absent 
from the kindly words. 

Viola rang the bell. When the tea came she 
poured it out, adding the precise amount of sugar 
and milk that Lady Bethnell preferred. She waited 
on her with a pretty attention. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


73 

“Have you told your sister-in-law to expect you?” 

Viola had neither finished nor despatched that 
letter. 

“No—it isn’t necessary. My room is always 
ready.” 

“You might find it occupied.” 

“Oh, no—I have the key. No one ever sleeps 
there when I’m away.” 

“Still, it would have been wiser.” 

“There’s been so little time,” said Viola. “And in 
any case, it’s too late now.” 

“Perhaps,” said Lady Bethnell, “you thought I 
should change my mind?” 

“I can’t remember thinking about it at all,” said 
Viola. 

“It’s all nonsense—-this idea of Esme’s to stay 
here another week.” 

Viola said nothing. 

“I can’t have him running the risk of annoying his 
father just for a whim!” 

Tea was finished. Pearce came in and took away 
the tray. Viola said: 

“Shall I read to you again, or would you like me 
to go and pack now?” 

“I think you’d better pack. If you stay up late at 
night to finish it, you’ll be so tired for the journey.” 

Viola’s room was at the other end of the apart¬ 
ment. To reach it she had to cross three of the big 
ante-rooms. In the farthest one she suddenly per¬ 
ceived a man’s form standing near the window. It 
was Esme, and his gray-clad figure, tall, lean, up¬ 
right, was silhouetted indefinitely between her and 
the light. Her heart beat a little quickly. She had 
not expected to see him back so soon. She would 
have avoided him had it been possible. She had 
indeed nearly passed him when he stretched out his 
hand and touched her sleeve. 


74 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Come here, Viola,” he said; “I’ve been waiting 
for you.” 

“No—not now—” she answered, confusedly. If 
Lady Bethnell should chance to come in and find 
them, she would certainly be jealous, suspicious and 
curious. 

“Viola—come here—” His voice was now urgent. 

She went up to him. 

“You might have come with me. I didn’t go to 
Murano after all. And I’ve had a perfectly rotten 
afternoon. When did you get back? Was the shop¬ 
ping so very important?” 

“It was so important that we didn’t attempt it at 
all,” said Viola, trying to speak lightly. “I’ve been 
reading to your mother all the afternoon.” 

Esme reddened slightly. Lie ought to have seen 
through such a shallow deception. And why had his 
mother deceived him? Did she suspect anything? 

“What on earth made you give in to her like 
that?” he inquired. 

“While I’m with her, I must do exactly as she 
wishes.” Her cool, careless voice piqued him. 

“Then where do I come in?” 

“You don’t come in at all.” 

“That isn’t true,” said Esme. “Viola, we’re going 
on the lagoon again to-night. I won’t be put off.” 

“If you go on the lagoon it will be alone, Esme.” 

“You’re to go to bed as usual—or rather pretend 
to. Then if you slip out at eleven you’ll find me 
waiting in the hall.” 

“No,” she said. “Your mother—” 

“She’ll be asleep by then. There’s no risk at all.” 

She wanted to say: “But why don’t you tell her 
frankly that you want to go?” It was, however, 
impossible to confront Esme with the specter of his 
own egoism. It was something that, while marring 
his perfection, brought him a little nearer to earth. 

“Viola, you thought I was fooling last night. You 



VIOLA HUDSON 


75 

were quite right to be angry. But I wasn’t—” He 
moved closer to her. She looked at him steadily. 

“You don’t believe me?” 

She was silent. 

“They’d never hear of my marrying a girl who 
was a Catholic,” he said, desperately. 

“I know. Your mother made that quite clear to 
me long before there was any talk of your coming.” 

“Did she? But I’m of age—I can please myself.” 

“And live on your pay?” she inquired, coolly. “I 
shall have about two hundred and fifty a year when 
I come of age. Your parents would certainly call 
that being penniless. Besides, it’s all settled. You 
are to marry Miss Isolde Clethorpe—she’s rich, 
beautiful, everything you can wish for.” 

With all the will in the world, she could not keep 
her voice free from a certain bitterness. But Esme 
was far too much amazed by the disclosure to heed 
this detail. 

“Marry Issy Clethorpe !” he groaned. 

“Yes. Why not? People may be foolish, but 
in the end they nearly always make suitable mar- 

• in 

riages! 

“Don’t be cynical. I hate a woman to be cynical,” 
he said, abruptly. 

“I was only trying to be sensible,” she said, 
quietly. 

“You are tired,” he said, with sudden compunc¬ 
tion, noticing her unusual pallor. “Have you been 
on duty all the afternoon?” 

“No—only since your mother finished her siesta.” 

“Were you going to rest now?” he asked. 

“No—she sent me to do my own packing.” 

“She really means to go to-morrow?” 

“I think so.” She moved toward the door. 

“Viola!” 

She turned her head.. 

“You will come to-night, won’t you? 


VIOLA HUDSON 


76 

“Yes,” said Viola, and vanished. 

She was astonished at herself directly she had 
uttered the word, but their conversation had made 
her look at the matter in a new and clearer light. 
He had convinced her now, that he loved her. He 
had envisaged the obstacle of parental displeasure. 
He would most certainly ask her to marry him. If 
he loved her, the fact of her being a Catholic and 
practically penniless according to Bethnell stand¬ 
ards, would have no power to deter him. Thus, 
there would be no harm in yielding to his request to 
go with him to-night. It need never come to his 
mother’s ears, unless they told her when their en¬ 
gagement was an accomplished fact. Esme had 
always been able to imbue Viola with a fine reckless 
spirit. She had always, in the old days, done his 
will, even when conscience disapproved and fear of 
consequences set her a-tremble. She had followed 
him blindly. But his power had never seemed so 
strong and vital a thing as now. She recognized 
that, and something of the old fear came over her. 
Less than ever would he care if she were hurt, so 
that nothing of blame should fall upon him. And 
his praise for her daring would be ample reward, 
even as it had always been. She hated herself for 
this secretly abject attitude. 

“You must go to bed early to-night, Viola,” said 
Lady Bethnell, at dinner. “You’re looking pale, and 
I can’t have you tired out before the journey. Esme 
can play piquet with me, and I shall go to bed early 
myself.” 

She had reached the time of life when late hours 
not only cease to attract but are also prone to dis¬ 
agree with the physical health. 

“Very well, Lady Bethnell,” said Viola. 

“There’ll be so much to do to-morrow, and we 


VIOLA HUDSON 77 

shall have to dine early so as to be in good time for 
our train.” 

“So you really mean to go?” said Esme. 

She looked at him with eyes as clear and green as 
his own. 

“Of course I do.” 

After dinner when the card-table had been placed 
in readiness, Viola said: 

“I think I shall go to my room. Good-night, 
Lady Bethnell,—good-night, Esme.” 

Esme went to the door and opened it for her. He 
looked at her as she passed out but he did not speak. 

“Darling Mum—how you do bully that poor 
child!” he said. 

Eyes and voice held a kind of whimsical reproach. 

“Bully her? What on earth do you mean? I’ve 
given her the time of her life!” 

“But keeping her in, all this lovely afternoon, 
reading to you! And sending her to bed! I wonder 
she doesn’t rebel.” 

“Viola is very young and inexperienced, and she 
is in my charge,” she reminded him. 

“You are afraid,” he said, boldly, “that she may 
trifle with my young affections!” 

“I’m much more afraid that you may trifle with 
hers. She is a Catholic, and you could not possibly 
marry a Catholic, however much you might fancy 
yourself to be in love.” She spoke severely, but her 
eyes softened as they rested upon his handsome hard 
face with its cold eyes. “Imagine what your father 
would say if you were to present him with a Catholic 
daughter-in-law.” 

“I should love to make the experiment only I don’t 
want to encourage him in his habitual use of bad 
language,” said Esme. “I can’t see, though, that it’s 
any concern of his.” 

“He will make it his concern. Don’t do anything 


VIOLA HUDSON 


78 

foolish, my darling boy. We want to see you well 
and happily married.” 

“But if you begin to suspect me every time I speak 
to a girl!” said Esme, with sudden anger. “I hate 
being watched and suspected. I have been my own 
master for years, and now you’re trying to keep me 
from seeing Viola. You made her stay in to read to 
you—you’ve sent her off to bed—on purpose to keep 
her out of my way! And now you go on about a 
Catholic daughter-in-law. Why, I’ve known Viola 
nearly all my life!” 

He was indignant with her because in her pas¬ 
sionate maternal solicitude she had divined so accu¬ 
rately what was passing in his mind, and he pulled 
down her little transparent veils and concealments 
with ruthless hand. “Don’t you suppose I can’t see 
that it’s because of Viola you’re so set on going home 
to-morrow? And all because she has prevented me 
from feeling bored to death in Venice!” 

The tears gathered in Lady Bethnell’s eyes. “You 
shouldn’t speak so cruelly to me, Esme. I am only 
thinking of your happiness.” 

Her appeal seemed to dispel his ill-humor. 

“Sorry, Mum. But confess—you’ve someone up 
your sleeve, haven’t you? Some eminently suitable 
maiden? Is it that Miss Clethorpe you used to write 
about? I remember her quite well—a very prim, 
demure little person who used to be shocked at my 
rough ways.” 

“I only wish there was the slightest chance of your 
winning her! Such a charming, exquisite creature. 

. . . She has a large fortune of her own besides 
being Sir Timothy’s heir.” 

Esme threw back his head and laughed. 

“There! Didn’t I know? But you shouldn’t 
have shown me the hook and the bait! The hook 
always frightens me horribly.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 79 

His green eyes danced. But his good-humor was 
now perfectly restored, and they settled down to 
their game in a spirit of renewed harmony. 


CHAPTER VIII 

T HE May moon shone from a dark blue sky, 
clear of cloud and delicately spangled with 
stars. It traced a broad path of light across the 
lagoon that lay like a field of silver. There was no 
wind, and the stillness was almost unnatural. The 
plash of the oar alone made a half-muffled, liquid 
sound across the silence. 

Esme and Viola sat under the awning. At first 
they did not speak much, but their thoughts were so 
deeply concentrated upon each other that it seemed 
as if some communication must surely pass from 
mind to mind. 

The knowledge that his parents intended to use 
their influence to bring about a marriage between 
himself and Isolde Clethorpe had produced the effect 
that Viola had prognosticated. It had caused him 
to come to a rapid decision. He was accustomed to 
procrastinate; he was indolent-minded, slightly 
vacillating, and he disliked taking decided and 
irrevocable steps, knowing perhaps how quickly he 
tired of the thing attained. 

Hesitating and capricious, he would probably 
have left Venice without speaking another word to 
Viola which should reveal the present state of his 
mind toward her. But he felt the need of establish¬ 
ing a barrier between himself and those powerful, 
cooperating elements, his parents, Sir Timothy, and 
Isolde. What chance could a mere man have against 
such a combination as that? Besides, his mother’s 
words had taught him that he really loved Viola. 


8 o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


He was not afraid of tiring of her. She was too 
beautiful for that; and what fears he had, lay only 
in the possibility of losing her. A secret marriage, 
to be revealed at a propitious moment—that was 
what he now contemplated. He wondered if she 
cared for him enough to consent to such a suggestion. 

There had always been something a little elusive 
about Viola, even when she was a child. There was 
a point beyond which she would never go, however 
much he might coax and implore. He could never 
get her, for instance, to invent a plausible lie that 
should stave off Miss Malleson’s anger. She had 
been straight and fearless when confession was 
forced upon her. That old terror of an aunt! Mer¬ 
cifully she was dead, and there was no one now who 
counted at all in Viola’s life. And she lived with 
unsympathetic relations—she must long to be free, 
with the freedom marriage could give. 

“Would you ever consent to a secret marriage?” 
he inquired, suddenly. 

“I’m not thinking of getting married, either 
secretly or not,” she replied. 

“Don’t you understand?” He bent his face a 
little nearer to her. “I want you to be my wife. I 
can’t leave Venice until you promise that you’ll 
marry me.” 

“Your mother will never consent. She’s suspi¬ 
cious, as it is.” 

“That is just why I am asking you to marry me 
secretly.” 

“I don’t think that would be possible for a Catho¬ 
lic,” she said, and her voice was cold as ice. 

The old story! “Catholics can’t, you know, 
Esme. ...” He could hear the childish lisping 
voice uttering those words a decade ago. 

“I daresay you couldn’t be married like that—as 
a Catholic. But we could always have a second 
ceremony.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“I should have to ask a priest about it,” said 
Viola. , 

Esme frowned. “I couldn’t possibly let you do 
that. It would give the whole show away. So much 
depends upon absolute secrecy.” 

Viola was silent, and he was aware that some¬ 
thing within her was sharply warring against his 
suggestion. 

She was conscious of his charm. It was still for 
her, as it had ever been, irresistible. But she knew 
now that other things were involved: she had an 
uprush from that part of her subconsciousness where 
childish impressions were stored. Miss Malleson 
was to her still a standard of right and wrong. Be¬ 
hind Miss Malleson’s teaching, often so harshly 
imposed upon her, stood the immense authority, the 
far-reaching laws of the Catholic Church. They 
were laws that affected not only your temporal life 
but your eternal welfare. The contemplation of 
eternity had always been a terrible thing to Viola. 
She had been forced to meditate upon it whenever 
she had been exceptionally naughty. She had never 
loved the dead woman; she had always feared her; 
but Miss Malleson stood for something that was 
permanent and unchanging. She had taught Viola 
the great truths of her religion. And in her dour 
harsh way she had loved her little niece. 

“It's perfectly easy for you to keep it a secret,” 
continued Esme’s smooth voice. “You’ve got no 
relations who matter. This sister-in-law can’t pos¬ 
sibly count.” 

“No one counts except myself,” said Viola, 
frostily. “As a Catholic I should have to ask 
advice.” 

“Oh, if you mean to let your religion come be¬ 
tween us, there’s nothing more to be said! You 
can’t care in the least for me,” he said, in a deeply 
injured tone. 


82 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“You know that isn’t true,” she said, rather 
breathlessly. 

“It could all be done so easily,” he continued. 
“When you are back in England you could go away 
on a visit to friends, and leave sooner than you tell 
them at your home. I could meet you—we could be 
married quietly by special license, and go away for 
our honeymoon. After that, you might have to go 
back to your brother’s house for a little until I could 
straighten things out at Ardlesham.” 

“I hate deceiving people. Besides, it’s wrong. 
No, if you really want to marry me, you must tell 
your mother and have it all quite straightforward. 
I know I must be married in a Catholic church. I 
shouldn’t be happy if things were done as you sug¬ 
gest.” She added this with a curious instinctive 
foresight. 

“I should be happy under any conditions so long 
as you were my wife, Viola.” He took her hand and 
held it firmly in his own. “You don’t know how 
I love you.” 

“Then perhaps it is—that I don’t love you 
enough ” she faltered, “for I simply feel I couldn’t 
play a part and tell all those lies. It would be 
wrong. If you remember anything about me in 
the old days, you must remember that I always 
owned up!” 

“Yes, and got whacked for it! I used to think you 
were a little fool.” 

She colored. Esme could still sometimes make 
her feel ashamed for him. 

“You weren’t brought up to be afraid of purga¬ 
tory,” she said. 

He threw back his head and laughed. “I should 
think not, indeed!” 

“But I was. My aunt was quite logical—she be¬ 
lieved it was better for me to suffer in this world 
when I’d done anything wrong, than in the next.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


83 

“A child’s sins! Do you really suppose God 
punishes them?” 

She answered gravely: “The child’s sins lead to 
the man’s sins, Esme.” 

“You’re too pretty to preach, darling. Besides, 
what about coming out with me to-night? Didn’t 
you deceive my mother?” 

“Yes. But I wasn’t disobeying any law of my 
Church. That makes a difference. If I consented to 
a secret marriage in a Protestant church, I should 
be guilty of sin.” 

She shrank a little from him. Mingled with her 
love for him there was a strange admixture of fear. 
She saw him as ever, conscienceless and careless. 

“No rational being believes in purgatory now,” he 
said scornfully. “All that sort of stuff was exploded 
at the Reformation. And people—really sensible 
people—are beginning to believe much less in hell.” 

“Millions and millions of people all over the 
world believe both in purgatory and hell,” she said. 

Esme had an intense dislike to meditating even 
cursorily upon the subject of a future life, the proba¬ 
bilities of expiation or punishment either temporary 
or permanent. No doubt such beliefs, in modera¬ 
tion, were useful deterrents to keep women in the 
straight path and mitigate the natural anxiety of 
husbands. But they must not be permitted to obtain 
an exaggerated hold over people. Viola was well 
worth the winning, he told himself. He had only 
made the initial mistake of imagining she would be 
easily persuadable. Miss Malleson’s erstwhile pupil 
certainly did her credit. Emancipated for seven 
years from that ferocious discipline, she had yet 
made no attempt to cast off the ancient chains. 

“Besides, it isn’t only the fear of punishment—” 
she said. 

' Yes, there was love too. The love that Viola 
gave was, as she knew, weak and negligible and 
inadequate, but it was there. Impossible to contem- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


84 

plate the Passion and remain untouched by those 
poignant Sufferings. Sin regarded in the light of the 
Redemption assumed a different and very terrible 
aspect. But she could not explain this to Esme. He 
had no grasp of spiritual things. Some day maybe 
she would teach him, in that strange new intimacy 
which would perhaps be theirs when they were hus¬ 
band and wife. Her heart softened a little toward 
him. She saw him ignorant and astray and very 
lovable. There was something almost maternal in 
her attitude toward him then. 

“I think a religious sense is very valuable and 
beautiful,” he said, presently, after a slight pause, 
“but we mustn’t exaggerate its claims. As men and 
women of the world, w T e have constantly to make 
decisions without any reference to it at all. You’re 
not a child, Viola. And if you refuse to marry me 
on the conditions I’ve laid down—and I tell you that 
they’re the only possible ones—I shall never see you 
again. I shall do my best to forget you. You’ll 
drive me into making a worldly marriage.” 

I shall never see you again . . . . The words 
sounded like a knell. She had never contemplated 
such a disastrous, drastic consequence as that. To 
go back to South Kensington, to the bleak routine of 
teaching Cecily’s children, with no hope of such an 
interlude as she was now enjoying, gave her a chill 
sense of despair. Esme must have observed some¬ 
thing of dismay in her face, for seeing his advantage 
he drew her closer to him. 

“And you’re not going to do that, my darling,” 
he said, “you couldn’t possibly be so cruel. Why, I 
thought you loved me. When one loves, nothing 
else matters.” 

“Yes—it’s quite true I love you,” she said, “but— 
even for you, Esme—” she hesitated; and then cling¬ 
ing to his hand for comfort, “How can I let you 



VIOLA HUDSON 85 

go?” she cried. The bitter little inward warfare 
was exhausting her. 

“You mustn’t let me go,” he whispered, and now 
she felt his lips pressing hers and lingering, too, on 
her closed eyelids. “You must be my wife. Viola— 
I can’t live without you. And I’m not asking you to 
do anything wrong. I’m only asking you to do what 
men and women are doing every day without a 
thought of evil. It may not be right according to 
your creed, but you won’t be breaking one of the 
world's laws, and, after all, only the legal aspect 
matters. We are both free—there’s no obstacle to 
our marriage.” 

Her face was drawn and almost haggard in the 
moonlight. 

“Then why can’t we be married simply and openly 
like other people?” she said. 

“I’d have it that way if it were possible. But you 
know what my father is. The idea of my being 
married in a Catholic church would be altogether 
too much for him without any other obstacles. If I 
don’t do exactly as he wishes, I shall find myself cut 
off with a shilling.” 

“I shouldn’t mind being poor,” she said. 

“But I should dislike it very much indeed. I’ve 
got quantities of most expensive tastes!” 

“Let’s go back, Esme. I can’t think about it any 
more to-night.” 

“No—we must thrash this out thoroughly first. 
I must have your promise, my darling child!” 

It had never been easy to refuse him. It was less 
so than ever now, although the forbidden cedar-tree 
had been exchanged for something of far deeper 
import. And she loved Esme. To be his wife 
seemed to her the most perfect destiny she could 
imagine, the most wonderful that life could offer. 
She could see his faults, but they didn’t seem to 
matter. 


86 


VIOLA HUDSON 


The man was her whole world, all the same, 

With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame, 

And either or both, to love. 

“I’ve a right to this happiness,” she said to her¬ 
self. For her the thought was a daring one; it im¬ 
plied the first dallying with temptation. 

They were nearing the Lido now. The strip 
of land was drawn in shadowy silhouette, pierced 
faintly with lights. In the distance they could see 
the lights of Venice, burning in long straight lines, 
in clustered groups, or scattered as if flung hap¬ 
hazard. The warm wind from the sea touched their 
faces. 

“I wish this could go on forever,” said Esme. 

“So do I,” said Viola. 

It was a beautiful hour, and she wished she could 
put from her altogether the sordid little scheme he 
had proposed. Her pride revolted at the thought 
of that clandestine wedding—just as if he were 
ashamed of marrying her. She knew that she was 
worthy to be Esme’s wife, worthy also to be received 
by his parents with kindly and hospitable welcome. 
It wasn’t as if he would be marrying beneath him. 
And when all was said and done, she wasn’t quite 
penniless, thanks to Miss Malleson. 

But, then, the other alternative—never to see him 
again! Never to hear his voice—to feel his kiss. 
He was passionately dear to her, and the bare threat 
of separation seemed to deprive her of physical 
strength. 

“Oh, don’t ask me to do this, Esme ! I can’t ...” 

His hold on her slackened a little, and his face 
grew hard. 

“I’ve told you what’ll happen if you don’t promise 
to be my wife. Do you suppose I’m going to let you 
play fast and loose with me? And I refuse—I 
utterly refuse-—to estrange myself from my own 
people.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 87 

Yes, she might tear her frocks and break her 
knees and suffer the consequent penalties, but no 
blame must be attached to Esme. 

“So don’t begin all over again, darling. It only 
tires one to death!” 

“I am tired to death,” she said. 

“Don’t you see how useless it is to struggle? We 
love each other—we wish to marry—don’t let’s 
think of side-issues.” 

“But it isn’t as simple as all that.” 

“We can put everything right afterward.” 

“But I’d wait, Esme.” 

“Wait? Women always want to keep a man 
waiting! But I can’t and won’t wait, Viola. You’re 
too precious for me to run risks. Besides, in another 
two months I shall have to go back to India.” 

She was thinking: “It’ll only be for a time. 
Afterward we can make it all right. God won’t 
punish me for snatching at this happiness—He must 
know what it means to me. It’s mine—it must be 
mine. I ... I might convert Esme.” The easy 
sophistry that accompanies temptation was coloring 
her thoughts. She “would not play false, and yet 
would wrongly win.” 

But, surely, never could temptation come in more 
seductive guise. 

“Well, are you going to promise, Viola?” whis¬ 
pered Esme. 

The plash of the oar, the lisp of parted water, 
broke the complete stillness. And in that silence 
Esme drew her close to him again, and touched her 
face with his own. He felt that she trembled. 

“Yes,” said Viola. Her lips closed firmly on the 
word. She seemed Up him then less a young, imma¬ 
ture girl than a strong purposeful woman. He had 
little fear now that she would go back upon her 
word. She would reconcile it to her conscience 
somehow. Wonderful how women in love were able 


88 VIOLA HUDSON 

to adjust conflicting opinions! He felt a subtle 
triumph, as if he had vanquished in a few hours the 
careful strenuous teaching Miss Malleson had 
spread over a term of years. 

Miss Malleson—yes, he could feel thankful that 
she was dead, that she no longer wielded authority 
over this sensitive plant. He could see her now, with 
her handsome head, her hard shrewd face, the coarse 
gray hair parted above a corrugated brow, showing 
the darkish skin beneath; the keen searching eyes 
that yet somehow possessed a touch of mystical 
vision; he could see, too, the tall and powerful form, 
the large, strong, well-shaped hands. He had even 
been a little afraid of her himself. Once or twice she 
had spoken to him “for his good,” when she had 
dismissed Viola to her room, there to await the pun¬ 
ishment she considered it her duty to inflict. He had 
gone out of her presence feeling a little ignoble—an 
unpleasant sensation. She had had a sharp tongue, 
that woman, and her eyes had seemed to look right 
through him as if she could clearly discern the mean, 
pitiful little soul concealed beneath his handsome 
heroic exterior. 

If she could see him now—luring Viola into a 
secret marriage wherein no Catholic priest would 
play any part at all. Protecting himself, too, at 
every point, counting on the girl’s capacity for 
silence, her deep loyalty . . . 

“And I’ll make you a promise, too, Viola,” he 
said, with sudden magnanimity. “I’ll promise to tell 
the old people before my leave’s up. You shall come 
back with me to India.” 

India . . . the word held a certain glamor for 
her. Life with Esme promised a rosy, alluring 
future. 

“You’ll be tremendously admired in Simla,” he 
told her. “There isn’t another woman to touch you 
there.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


89 

That fresh young beauty, that lovely grace and 
charm! . . . She must have wonderful frocks and 
jewels. He wondered if his mother would surrender 
any of the family diamonds—she never wore them 
now. Surely, she would give some of them to Viola. 
And she must love her as a daughter; it ought not to 
be difficult, as she already loved her as a friend. 

The gondola was floating now toward the Grand 
Canal. There were few lights to be seen in any of 
the palace windows. It was very late and the world 
was asleep. They had the feeling that they were 
alone in this faery world of water and moonlight and 
cool flowing air . . . 

They stopped before the great door. Esme 
sprang out on to the wet, slippery steps washed by 
the water. Tie gave his hand to Viola, and she 
stepped out and stood beside him. He fitted the 
latch-key into the lock and they entered the vestibule, 
dimly lit. He closed the door. 

“Viola, my darling . . . my wife.” 

He held out his arms and she crept into them. 
She did not speak, and he felt that she trembled. 
Her face was very cold. 

CHAPTER IX 

F OR the rest of the night Viola lay awake, her 
brain actively engaged in forming plans for the 
future. At an early hour she rose, and made her way 
through a perplexing maze of calli and small bridges 
to a convent situated near the Grand Canal at some 
little distance from Lady Bethnell’s apartment. She 
had already been there once or twice to visit an 
English nun who lived there, and to attend Benedic¬ 
tion in the chapel in the evening. 

She was going there now to make a request. 
Feverish and restless during those wakeful hours 
of the night, she had rehearsed over and over again 


90 


VIOLA HUDSON 


that scene with Esme in the gondola. She saw 
clearly the impossibility of traveling with him and 
his mother to England. Lady Bethnell was neither 
blind nor stupid, and, especially where her son was 
concerned, she was gifted with quite an alarming 
faculty of discernment. She would be certain to dis¬ 
cover the fact that they were not indifferent to each 
other. Viola felt, indeed, that she could never hide 
her own feeling for Esme. The joy and the malaise 
of love were upon her. She was sensing its exhaust¬ 
ing emotion. When she had risen that morning, she 
had been horrified at the face that confronted her in 
the mirror. The pale aspect, the hectic patches in the 
white, haggard cheeks, the unnatural brilliancy of 
the eyes, the deep shadows that encircled them, 
seemed to proclaim that she was passing through a 
secret, emotional crisis. The task of concealment 
was, she felt, quite beyond her powers. And the 
sense of intrigue nauseated her. She was perfectly 
aware that she had done wrong in promising to 
marry Esme on the conditions he had laid down. 
She tried to blame him for having exacted that 
promise from her, indicating at the same time an 
almost insupportable alternative. He should have 
waited. She was barely eighteen—she would not 
have minded waiting for several years. His mother 
would certainly in time have become reconciled to the 
marriage. She had always liked Viola, in her queer 
blunt way. And Viola herself was not penniless. 
She would have nearly three hundred a year when 
she married or came of age. She had always re¬ 
garded herself as rather rich than otherwise. So 
many girls had nothing but a meager allowance, paid 
irregularly by their parents. 

She arrived in time for Mass in the nuns’ chapel. 
When it was over, she asked to see the Reverend 
Mother on a matter of urgent importance. It would 
be impossible, the lay-sister informed her, until 


VIOLA HUDSON 


9 i 

breakfast was over; it would be better still, if she 
could wait until half-past nine. Viola agreed, and 
went out to get a cup of coffee at a neighboring 
restaurant. It was only nine o’clock when she re¬ 
turned to the convent, and she still had half an hour 
to wait. She wandered restlessly about the big par¬ 
lor with its spotless marble floor, its painted ceilings. 
Outside, a great cypress tree divided the strip of sky 
into two narrow oblong portions. Such a blue, blue 
sky, cloudless and dazzling. 

At last the door opened, and a small, slight, black- 
draped figure came into the room. Viola saw a nar¬ 
row pale face, made narrower by the snowy coif 
that framed it. The eyes were gray and very calm 
and wise. 

“You wished to see me, Miss Hudson?” she asked 
in French. 

“Yes,” said Viola, “I wanted to ask you if you 
could let me stay here for a few days—a week. I 
don’t want to travel back with the friend I came out 
here with. She has her son with her—she doesn’t 
want me. It would be very kind of you to let me 
come.” 

“Can you give me a reference? We don’t take 
boarders, you know, but sometimes people come to 
us to make a retreat.” 

“I was one of your girls at Polesea,” said Viola. 
“I was at school there. And I’m one of your 
Children of Mary.” 

She dragged at a chain that hung round her neck, 
and pulled out a silver medal that was attached 

to it. 

The nun glanced at it. 

“Is it long since you were at Polesea?” 

“No—I only left at the beginning of last year. 
My people are all Protestants, but I was left an 
orphan and was brought up by an aunt who was a 
Catholic. After her death I went to school at Pole- 



92 


VIOLA HUDSON 


sea and was there for several years.” She mentioned 
the names of some of the nuns in whose classes she 
had been. The Reverend Mother had been in Eng¬ 
land and knew several of the nuns she mentioned. 
She was satisfied that Viola was a suitable inmate 
for their guest house. There was always a little 
risk about taking unknown girls imploring shelter 
for no particular reason. 

“We shall be very glad to welcome you as one of 
our old girls,” she said, kindly, “but it must only be 
for a week or two. And if you wished, one of the 
nuns could give you a retreat while you are here.” 

Viola said quickly: “Oh, no, please not. I mean, 
I’d rather not make a retreat.” 

She had made retreats while at school, and she 
remembered the process of soul-searching and self- 
examination that it necessarily involved. One sav¬ 
ored for a time the spiritual life; one went softly; 
at the end one made resolutions. . . . 

To go into retreat now, would almost certainly 
mean that she would have to sacrifice happiness and 
Esme. The thought stabbed her. 

“Sometimes when one feels like that about it, it is 
all the more essential to make one,” said the nun. 

She had had a very wide experience of souls, espe¬ 
cially of the souls of young girls. And in Viola she 
seemed to discern one that was both restless and 
suffering. She seemed ill at ease. She was perhaps 
at the cross-roads. 

“I couldn’t possibly make one now,” Viola de¬ 
clared. 

The Reverend Mother said very kindly: 

“You shall do just as you wish. When may we 
expect you?” 

“Could I come this afternaon? They go home 
to-night.” 

“We shall be quite ready for you.” 

Viola made a little curtsey and kissed the nun’s 


VIOLA HUDSON 


93 


hand as she had learned to do at school. She fol¬ 
lowed her into the hall. A lay-sister opened the 
door, and in another moment Viola was walking 
along the narrow, paved fondamenta, with the 
strong May sunshine pouring upon her head. In 
the narrow canal some boys were bathing. She 
could hear their cries, their splashing, as they hurled 
their lithe little brown bodies into the water. 

So that was settled. It was a relief to feel that 
she had this refuge. Lady Bethnell wouldn’t have 
approved of her staying at a hotel or pension by her¬ 
self, but even she could make no demur about her 
going to a convent. And Esme would probably hail 
it as a clever Solution of a difficulty. 

As she walked briskly along, her head thrown back 
a little, Viola was conscious that after the long, slow 
stagnation of her life with Cecily, things had at last 
begun to move. She was suddenly plunged into a 
maze of dramatic events wherein she was one of the 
principal figures. It even gave her a sensation of 
pleasure and excitement to be able to say: “My life 
is in my own hands now.” She betrayed a certain 
recklessness, a revolt against the scruples which the 
nun’s suggestion that she should make a retreat had 
unconsciously aroused. She had not expected to be 
met on the very threshold, as it were, with that 
atmosphere with which Miss Malleson had sur¬ 
rounded her. She had once more found herself in 
that world where only one thing mattered—to be a 
good Catholic. She had striven to reach this ideal 
even as a child. The standard had been there, she 
had been taught to see its necessity as well as its 
paramount importance. And even as a child she had 
been aware of failure. There had been Esme, for 
instance, ever cajoling her into paths of disobedience. 
And there was still Esme, with his odd power over 
her, his inability to see that religion either ought to 
or could play any part in practical life. 



94 


VIOLA HUDSON 


As she walked on, her eagerness to go and stay in 
the convent diminished. She began to realize what 
would happen. The nuns would come to her room— 
there was always a nun whose duty it was to look 
after the guests and see that they had all they 
wanted, and that they conformed to the few simple 
rules laid down for them. They would talk to her 
and lend her books. They would perhaps—as she 
was one of their old girls—inquire when she had 
last been to confession. An invincible pressure 
would be brought to bear upon her. She was sobered 
at the thought. And if they succeeded, good-by to 
Esme’s plan of a secret marriage in a Protestant 
church. Good-by to that large free life he had 
offered her. She would return to Cecily and slavery. 
She could hear herself saying: “No, Margery, five 
and four don’t make eleven. Lionel, New York is 
not the capital of Canada. ...” 

To go back after this! . . . 

The sun was shining brilliantly on the Grand 
Canal. A crowded steamer went past. She saw a 
luxurious private gondola, plied by two handsome 
gondoliers, and beneath the awning she could see two 
daintily dressed women in white summer frocks and 
flower-wreathed hats. Suddenly it flashed through 
her mind that when she was Esme’s wife she, too, 
would have wealth at her command. Other women 
would perhaps envy her. Now she was approaching 
the Rialto, rising in front of her, spanning the Canal 
with its bold pale curves. She simply couldn’t go 
back to Margery and Lionel after all this loveli¬ 
ness ! . . . 

Ambitious people—people who were determined 
to succeed in life—invariably, she had heard it said, 
concentrated their whole thoughts and aims upon the 
single object of their desire. They permitted noth¬ 
ing to deflect them from their purpose. It was there, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


95 

like some great shining thing to which they moved 
forward without allowing any obstacles to stand in 
their way. Perhaps that was why it was sometimes 
said a good Catholic couldn’t be ambitious except in 
a purely spiritual sense. For so often it was re¬ 
ligion, a moral scruple, that put the obstacle there. 
That was what she felt, and that was what the nuns 
would assuredly make her feel. The single shining 
object of their ambitious vision was that eternal 
after-life to be spent in Heaven. They had entered 
the cloister to make their path thither more certain. 
For, narrow is the gate and strait is the way that 
leadeth to life . . . and few there are that find 
it . . . What dreadful words those were—she 
wished that she had not thought of them now. 

It was nearly luncheon-time when she reached the 
old palace. Lady Bethnell was full of the fuss of 
approaching departure. Esme sat in the big salone, 
smoking lazily. He had resigned himself to the 
inevitable and now made no further attempt to in¬ 
duce his mother to stay in Venice. He looked up 
and smiled as Viola appeared, rose slowly and gave 
her his hand. They had not met since that parting 
scene in the vestibule last night. But his mother’s 
presence enforced indifference now, and the thought 
stung Viola. 

She went up to Lady Bethnell and kissed her. 
“Guess where I’ve been!” she said. 

“I am certainly not going to try,” said Lady Beth¬ 
nell, gruffly. She wasn’t quite pleased with Viola. 

u I’ve been to the convent and asked the Reverend 
Mother to let me go there for a week or two. You 
see, I felt that I simply couldn’t face Margery and 
Lionel quite so soon!” 

Lady Bethnell looked both astonished and slightly 
relieved. She was glad to think that she would be 
alone with her son on that homeward journey, not 


VIOLA HUDSON 


9 6 

sharing his attentions with Viola. She wasn’t sure 
of Esme. He was certainly violently interested in 
the girl, and that cool, disdainful manner of hers 
piqued him. He was so accustomed to being run 
after by women. Viola, on the contrary, fled rather 
than followed, a most dangerous experiment with a 
spoilt person like Esme. 

“But, my dear—we’ve got your ticket. And Em 
afraid Mrs. Hudson won’t at all care about your 
traveling back alone.” 

She regarded her dubiously, wondering whether 
this independent move held perhaps an ulterior sig¬ 
nificance. 

“Cecily won’t mind. And I can change the ticket 
for one of a later date perhaps—they let you do 
that if you pay something.” 

“It sounds a perfectly rotten scheme,” said Esme, 
in his indolent voice. “You’ll be bored silly in a 
convent.” 

Perhaps he too was thinking of the influence 
the conventual atmosphere might have upon Viola 
now. 

“And how long do you mean to stay there?” in¬ 
quired Lady Bethnell. 

“Perhaps about a fortnight,” said Viola. 

“You’ll never stick it for a fortnight,” said Esme. 

His face wore a discontented look. Of course, 
it was in a sense a relief that Viola had settled not 
to travel home with them. Lie had recognized the 
difficulty of that. But a convent . . . that was an¬ 
other thing. Viola would be surrounded there by 
the old influences; and these he knew were in direct 
opposition to all his own suggestions and schemes. 
He was fully aware that she had had to overcome 
certain powerful scruples before she could bring 
herself to assent to his plan. Her sojourn in the 
convent would inevitably fortify and accentuate 
those scruples. It was only, indeed, when he had 


VIOLA HUDSON 97 

told her that unless she consented he would never 
see her again, that she had finally given in. He had 
seen her grow pale, and a sudden look of pain had 
come into her face, as if the cold shadow of separa¬ 
tion had already fallen upon her. Then he knew 
he had triumphed, a little meanly perhaps, for of 
course it would never have been easy or even pos¬ 
sible to go away like that and leave her forever. 
It was only a threat, but Viola had been brought 
up on threats, which had invariably materialized if 
she had not heeded them with sufficient celerity, so 
that she was little likely to ignore them. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy in a convent,” 
said Lady Bethnell, perhaps hoping that Viola would 
remain there altogether. She would make a charm¬ 
ing nun. She could picture her with white coif and 
dim veil, meek and obedient. 

U I suppose they’ll let you out when you want 
to leave?” said Esme. To him a convent was little 
better than a prison, and he could not believe that 
any human being ever voluntarily remained in one. 

“Oh, they won’t wall me up!” said Viola, with 
one of her brilliant smiles. 

“And of course you’re quite sure Mrs. Percival 
Hudson won’t object?” said Lady Bethnell. She 
did not wish to encounter reproaches for this high¬ 
handed, independent action of Viola’s. 

“It’s nothing to do with her. After all, I’m not 
obliged to live with her.” 

They sat down to lunch. Viola looked, as indeed 
she felt, radiant. She was delighted at the success 
of her plan. She had so disliked the prospect of 
traveling home with the mother and son, tasting all 
the bitterness of a false position voluntarily 
accepted. 

Esme was the least satisfied of the three. Why 
couldn’t she have made up her mind to travel with 
them? After all, it would have been easy enough 


VIOLA HUDSON 


98 

to hoodwink the old lady. They could have 
snatched a few minutes alone together sometimes. 
And here, without him, Viola would be exposed to 
those other claims, those other potent influences, to 
which she had been, even as a child, such a slave. 
He wasn’t prepared to disregard as negligible the 
power of the Catholic Church over its devotees. 
Its laws were all clear, cold, defined and logical. 
There was no compromise, no mitigation for in¬ 
dividuals of its irrefragable laws. Other churches 
moved—or tried to move—with the times, making 
things easier and less severe as men and women de¬ 
manded an increased liberty of action. But not the 
Catholic Church. 

He wasn’t only fighting Viola in this fierce 
struggle to obtain her for his wife; he was fighting 
something far more powerful. It remained to be 
seen whether her love for him would triumph or not. 

After luncheon they were alone together for a 
short time, just before Viola’s departure for the 
convent. She could not remain with them until they 
left—the convent hours were too early. And now 
it had come to the point, she was anxious to go. 

“You must write to me,” said Esme, “not to 
Ardlesham, of course, but to my club in London. 
And when you come back you mustn’t tell any of 
your relations. I shall meet you, and take you to 
some quiet rooms and we shall be married from 
there.” He had been rapidly evolving this plan, 
and had now brought himself to see that it was far 
wiser Viola should remain in Venice for the present. 
“No one but myself will know that you’re in Eng¬ 
land—that’ll make everything so much easier for 
both of us. Of course I hate leaving you here. But 
as you’re bent on it, we must make it a useful move 
as well.” 

His voice was cold and authoritative. Inwardly 
she rebelled against that note of authority. 



VIOLA HUDSON 


99 


“I hate all this deceit,” she said. “Is it necessary? 
To me it seems so . . . degrading!” 

“It’s quite necessary. And I really see nothing 
degrading in keeping your own counsel. You are 
not a child.” 

“Esme, are you sure it’s all right? Do you think 
you ought to marry me?” 

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, more tenderly, “of 
course we are going to be married. But I don’t 
want to thrash it out again. You’ve given me your 
word, and that’s enough.” 

He drew her to him and kissed her. Under his 
touch she weakened. It made her realize his love. 
It would be impossible to let that love go out of 
her life. Why, it was part of it already—such a 
splendid royal part! . . . 

“Let me go—your mother’s coming,” she whis¬ 
pered, frantic with fear. 

He released her and stood with folded arms by 
the window. Viola had dropped into a chair, ex¬ 
hausted with emotion. Even the prospect of this 
short separation was terrible, filling her with sor¬ 
row and even anxiety. With his easy susceptibility 
Esme might well go away and forget her. The 
dazzling fortune and beauty of Miss Clethorpe 
awaited him at Ardlesham. And, loving approval 
and applause as he did, she felt that the thought 
of basking for once in the sunshine of parental ap¬ 
probation might have its allure, and tempt him to 
submit to their wise and prudent choice. 

There had been, after all, no sign of Lady Beth- 
nell, and Esme with renewed daring came across 
to where she was sitting and bringing a chair close to 
her sat down and put his arm about her. 

“You won’t go back on your word, Viola?” he 

said. 

“No.” 

“You give me your promise?” 


100 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Yes, I promise.” She freed herself from his 
grasp and sprang to her feet. “Esme—I’m going 
now. I can’t bear any more!” 

She looked at him a little wildly. 

He kissed her again, trying to soothe her. “It’ll 
be easier than you think, darling. I’ll make it easy. 
You needn’t be afraid.” 

“I’m afraid of so many things ... of doing 
wrong—that’s the worst fear of all. Oh, you 
haven’t quieted one of my scruples! It’s only fair 
to tell you that. And I’m afraid, too, of your going 
away—and forgetting—or finding you don’t love 
me. The world seems full of fears and shadows.” 
Her face was ashen pale. 

“Dear Viola, you’re exaggerating. You must put 
away these fears—they’re childish, you know. It 
was all very well to have them when you were in 
the nursery—they may have been necessary for you 
then. Trust yourself to me . . .” His voice had 
suddenly grown gentle and full of that irresistible 
tenderness that always weakened her. 

She smiled at him with her lips, but her eyes were 
filled with tears. 

“I believe I’m thinking of the days when you used 
to get me into such scrapes, always assuring me it 
was all right,” she said. 

“Nonsense—we were children. You mustn’t 
think of those days.” 

“But I do think of them.” He would scarcely 
have been flattered had he guessed how accurately 
she remembered his talent for wriggling out of the 
most unpromising situations, his bland facile lying 
that always shocked her so inexpressibly. She would 
far rather endure punishment than resort to such 
mean measures. Esme had told her frankly she 
was a fool. 

She walked away to the window. The bright 
glare from the water stung and hurt her eyes. Dur- 


/ 


VIOLA HUDSON 


IOI 


ing the little silence that followed, Lady Bethnell 
came into the room. 

“Have you ordered the gondola?” she asked 
Viola. 

“Yes. And I'm quite ready—I must be going.” 

“I might come—” Esme began. But Viola cut 
him short. 

“No, please not. I’d rather go alone.” 

Lady Bethnell looked relieved. “You’re quite 
right, my dear. But it’s horrid saying good-by.” 
She kissed her with almost a return of her old affec¬ 
tion. Viola was acting wisely and prudently. 

When Viola went downstairs Esme accompanied 
her. Before he opened the door he kissed her lightly 
on lips and eyes. Then the grim portone was flung 
open, and the white blinding glare illuminated the 
dim vestibule. 

Outside, the gondola was rocking close to the 
steps, swishing the water over the narrow fonda- 
menta. Viola’s luggage was piled upon it in a little 
heap. 

She went down the steps with a face like a stone. 

“Oh, you haven’t given me your address. And I 
shall want to write, Viola,” said Esme. 

She stretched out her hand and gave him a card. 
“Here it is.” 

The gondola gave its long swift movement. She 
looked up but she could not see Esme’s face for the 
tears in her eyes. 

The sunlight glittering on the broad waters of the 
Canal was of a brightness that stung. There were 
little pin-points of white-hot light that pricked her 
eyes. Impossible, too, to look up at the sky—the 
glare was torture. On the steps, that tall graceful 
figure was still standing in a negligent attitude, 
watching her. She lifted her hand and waved it, 
and he waved back. 

“I wonder if I shall ever see him again,” she 



102 


VIOLA HUDSON 


thought. It was horrible to confess that dreadful 
doubt even secretly. But was he the one to fight 
hard, to exert himself, for something that didn’t 
come readily and easily to his hand? 

The swifts skimmed by, like wonderful spirits of 
the air, tireless in their ceaseless flight. Some early 
oleanders lifted rose-colored stars above a thicket 
of gray-green foliage. And the roses, golden and 
crimson and white, splashed over wall and bridge 
and balcony in brilliant clusters. There was a scent 
of flowers in the air, mingling with the sharp brack¬ 
ish breeze from the Adriatic and that hint of the 
odor of sour mud from the Canal . . . 

When she looked back once more, before the gon¬ 
dola turned into a little side rio, she saw that Esme’s 
tall figure had vanished. 


CHAPTER X 

Y OU are looking pale,” said Mother Gabrielle, 
whose charge it was to look after the guests 
who stayed in the convent. “I hope you don’t feel 
ill. Many people find the climate of Venice enervat- 
ing.” 

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m quite well. I’m hardly 
ever ill,” said Viola, nervously. 

The kind grave eyes regarded her with mingled 
compassion and solicitude. This soul was not at 
peace; one look at the brilliant restless eyes could 
tell her that. 

Perhaps she had come to the inevitable cross¬ 
roads and had a difficult decision to make. Per¬ 
haps it was a question of marriage warring against 
a profound sense of vocation. This was not an un¬ 
usual dilemma with Catholic girls. Sometimes 
worldly parents would endeavor to force a girl con- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


103 


scious of a true vocation into a brilliant marriage. 
Or perhaps this Miss Hudson had had the anguish 
of finding herself in a situation where her religion 
and her will were in direct opposition to each other. 
There was often in such cases a kind of conflict be¬ 
tween worldly and spiritual interests. And if the 
heart were involved the conflict sometimes proved a 
fiery one. Some women took refuge in a convent 
at such a time in order to surround themselves with 
spiritual thoughts, and fortify themselves against 
the very thing they secretly longed for. 

“Come up and see your room,” the nun said, 
gently. 

She led the way upstairs. In a corridor apart 
from the rest were rows of doors each labeled with 
the name of some saint. These were the rooms set 
apart for guests and retreatants. Mother Gabri- 
elle paused before a door marked “S. Lorenzo,” and 
opened it. The room within was furnished almost 
as simply as a nun’s cell. There was a little white 
bed, above which hung curtains of mosquito-netting 
suspended from the ceiling. A chest of drawers 
with a small mirror above it, a table, a couple of 
cane chairs and a wash-stand, comprised the rest of 
the furniture. The window was open, and beyond 
it Viola could see great trees lifting their leaves to 
the sunshine. 

“How quiet—how peaceful! I shall like being 
here,” she said, simply. 

Close to the bed on the white-washed wall there 
hung a Crucifix and a holy-water stoup. 

“I am glad you like it. Often it does one good 
to spend a few days quietly in a convent to pray— 
to meditate.” 

“I’m sure it does.” 

“Mass is at seven. And to-night we have Bene¬ 
diction, at six o’clock. It’s the first Friday of the 
month.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


104 

The first Friday of the month—yes, it was the 
first of June, the month specially set apart for the 
devotion to the Sacred Heart of Our Lord. Viola 
had not remembered it, but the nun’s words took 
her back to her convent school-days. She had al¬ 
ways made her Communion on that day, going to 
confession the evening before. Some of the older 
girls had belonged to the Apostleship of Prayer, 
whose members were pledged to honor this great 
and mystical devotion. Viola felt as if a chord had 
been touched in her heart, and that its vibrations 
were causing her a subtle torture. 

“I ought never to have come here,” she thought. 

“Supper is at seven. You will find two other 
ladies there. Would you like to be called in the 
morning?” 

“No . . . yes ... I mean—please,” stammered 
Viola. 

Mother Gabrielle went quietly out of the room. 
When she had gone Viola sat down by the open win¬ 
dow, and her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t ex¬ 
pected to suffer like this. The memories of other 
days held her fast, hurting her. She could remem¬ 
ber the good resolutions she had been wont to 
make at school. Never deliberately to offend by 
word or deed. To die rather than to offer the re¬ 
bellion and outrage of deliberate sin to the Divine 
Majesty of Christ. And now she was coldly plan¬ 
ning this defiance of the Church’s laws. 

Sin . . . The word scourged her and brought a 
little flame of guilt to her cheek. Already she per¬ 
ceived the futility of Esme’s glib sophistries. But 
he wasn’t a Catholic. He had no idea how one 
was held and bound. He was asking her to out¬ 
rage the sanctity of marriage. She was perfectly 
aware that she could not marry a Protestant with¬ 
out first obtaining a dispensation. And she could 
not obtain this unless Esme made certain promises. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


105 

Nevertheless, she had promised to marry him 
secretly in a Protestant church, without any such dis¬ 
pensation, without binding him to those necessary 
conditions. 

The crowning folly was to come here—to place 
herself again under those ancient spiritual influences.- 
It meant that she would only prolong the conflict and 
make it far more bitter and difficult. She must 
choose between Esme and her religion—that was 
what it came to. And here she could only contem¬ 
plate one side of the picture. 

And then she thought of Esme. She saw him 
standing on the steps, watching her with lazy ad¬ 
miration in his green eyes as she descended into the 
gondola. His little smile of triumph . . . She 
loved him, but she had no illusions about him. He 
was just what he had always been, egoistic, elu¬ 
sive, deceitful and unscrupulous. These were hard 
words but his charm could override all these less 
agreeable characteristics. And with all his defects 
she loved him. 

When she thought of him, she could almost feel 
him physically near, and she felt that her love for 
him was an all-conquering emotion that was capable 
of sweeping aside every barrier. 

When Viola returned to her room that evening, 
after a very simple supper that contrasted vividly 
with the elaborate menus that had prevailed at Lady 
Bethnell’s, she found a little heap of books on the 
chest-of-drawers. Some were in English, some in 
French, and all w r ere of a religious kind. There 
were Lives of the Saints, Meditations, and biogra¬ 
phies of eminent Catholics. She had no books with 
her, and she was badly in need of something to 
read. She turned over the pages of one or two. of 
them carelessly. They were all chosen with a view 
of stimulating devotion, and she felt that they would 
deepen the convent atmosphere. Although she was 


io6 


VIOLA HUDSON 


not in retreat, her soul was to be nourished. There 
were little rules to be obeyed. She was not left 
isolated and alone as she would have been if she 
had gone to a hotel or pension. 

She stood by the window and looked out upon the 
quiet little garden. A great cypress-tree stood there, 
velvet-black in the moonlight. A bat passed, a filmy 
fluttering thing like a noiseless shadow. There was 
no splash of lapping water, no echo of the Venetian 
sounds and cries. It was a hushed little world, quite 
apart from the busy life of the sea-city. 

Esme must be in the train now. She could picture 
him, sitting opposite to his mother in the compart¬ 
ment, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Yes, even 
this short parting was terrible. Everything about 
the future was cruelly uncertain. And she loved 
him, she needed him with all the human part of her. 
God couldn’t punish her for marrying him when 
she loved him so much. In a few weeks perhaps 
they would be husband and wife. 

The bell of a neighboring church rang out 
sharply. She looked at her watch. Nine o’clock— 
that was the De Profundis bell that nightly reminds 
Catholics to pray for their dead. Viola rose and 
tried to repeat the words of the psalm. But the 
effort was too much for her. She broke down and 
sobbed helplessly. 

The days passed monotonously. Sometimes Viola 
was seized with a fever of restlessness and anxiety 
that seemed to sap her very life. At such moments 
she could hardly bear the restriction imposed by 
those cloistered convent walls. But she forced her¬ 
self to remain there. She would not even go out 
for a walk, feeling that she would never be able to 
persuade herself to return. 

Each day was just like the one that went before 
in outward happenings. She was called soon after 


VIOLA HUDSON 


107 

six, and she rose at once, almost glad to be up, de¬ 
spite the curious weariness and lassitude of her 
body, after the miserable wakeful night punctured 
with brief intervals of sleep tortured by dreams of 
Esme. She dressed herself very simply in a plain 
dark blue serge dress, and with a black lace veil 
over her head went down to the chapel. The nuns 
were already assembled there; as well as the girls, 
of whom there were perhaps fifty, all dressed alike 
in dark blue with black veils. When she was at 
school Viola had been dressed exactly as these girls 
were dressed; she could picture herself coming in, 
genuflecting, walking with slow rhythmic step to her 
appointed place. Miss Malleson had always 
dressed her so austerely that she had never rebelled 
against the convent garb as so many of the girls did, 
grumbling at its simplicity. Miss Malleson had al¬ 
ways regarded Viola’s ever-increasing beauty with 
dismay; to her it was a danger and a temptation, 
and she crushed every symptom even of wholesome 
vanity in the child. Viola had worn her hair combed 
back from her forehead and fastened in a tight plait. 
Her dresses were plain and always a little old-fash¬ 
ioned, and she seldom had a new one unless it was 
absolutely necessary. Eler frocks were lengthened 
and turned until she was secretly ashamed of their 
shabbiness. Her shoes were stout and ugly, and the 
coarse woollen stockings hurt her feet. But the 
training had stood her in good stead, for even now 
she was little dependent upon exterior comfort. She 
could bear both cold and heat, and she cared little 
what she ate. Miss Malleson had fostered a stoical 
fortitude where the pains of the body were con¬ 
cerned. Luckily the child was strong and had had a 
good constitution or the cold baths, the absence of 
adequate heating, might have rendered her perma¬ 
nently delicate. 

Yes, she could picture Viola Hudson among these 


io8 


VIOLA HUDSON 


girls. At school her conduct had been almost per¬ 
fect, but she had made few friends. She had left 
school indeed without forming a single intimate 
friendship. Although Miss Malleson was then dead, 
Viola lived still according to the rules she had laid 
down for her guidance. At the convent she never 
displayed those sudden fits of anger which Mrs. 
George Hudson had sometimes witnessed. Her be¬ 
havior had been indeed so exemplary that many of 
her companions confidently prophesied she would 
become a nun. 

It was only during the first few days that she 
felt any rebellion against the atmosphere of the con¬ 
vent, the gentle spiritual teaching of Mother Ga- 
brielle. Gradually the environment achieved its 
work. She sank tranquillized under it, no longer 
rebelling against its consummate quietude. She was 
even thankful for its strange harmonious peace, the 
subtle reflection perhaps of the secret processes of 
sanctification operating upon those cloistered souls 
within its walls. 

And as the convent atmosphere began to prevail, 
the days spent with Esme seemed to lose something 
of their violent coloring. They had stood out in her 
imagination bathed in fiery hues of crimson, and 
burning blue, and gold. Nights of liquid moonlight; 
the rush of sea-wind in the darkness, coming like 
an icy caress; the lap of water. The beautiful pearl- 
colored lagoon, stretching out like a pale lake. The 
reflections of the lights of Venice illuminating the 
black water, shining in serried lines like golden 
luminous flowers. Velvet dark skies scattered with 
stars. And Esme near her, forming part of the 
landscape, his presence intensifying its very beauty, 
adding too to its unreality, its faery quality. To be 
near Esme, listening to his voice, so soft that it never 
jarred even when he broke the most perfect silence. 
The touch of his hard thin hands. Only to look 


VIOLA HUDSON 109 

st his hands you realized their power, and how deft 
and purposeful they were. The glint of gold in 
his hair. Those queer green eyes of his, the color 
of breaking waves, just beneath the foam. It was 
strange to think that these things could so quickly 
recede even a little into the background, losing 
something of their power over her. For never had 
she experienced such violence of emotion as in those 
few days spent with Esme in Venice. Physically 
and mentally she was exhausted, and thankful to 
savor the contrast of this quiet but occupied peace. 
For it wasn’t indolent or lethargic, this convent life, 
as so many supposed. There was busy constant 
movement within its walls. Appointed tasks of defi¬ 
nite scope and intention. It was no slight thing to 
train half a hundred girls to carry on in their future 
lives the torch of their faith, and all that it meant 
to the Catholic home. There was no blind groping. 
Everything was punctual, regular, and ordered. 
Very, very hard in itself, this religious life, shorn of 
all physical comfort and repose, but made easy be¬ 
cause of that divine gift of “vocation,” one of the 
most powerful, the most compelling that can turn 
the human soul into paths of sanctity and sacrifice. 

Viola barely touched the fringe of that life, ex¬ 
cept at Mass and Benediction, which she attended 
regularly. But she was conscious of it all around 
her and of its steady effect upon her. After a week 
her whole being was lulled. She had ceased to watch 
feverishly for letters. This life seemed to separate 
her from Esme without inflicting any of the sharp 
pain of parting. He didn’t belong . . . the very 
thought of him was an incongruity. Sometimes his 
face would rise up before her, smiling, sardonic, 
with all the usual phrases about nuns and convents 
on his lips. And then she knew that in the deep 
places of the soul her soul could never meet Esme’s. 
But he filled her heart. 


I 10 


VIOLA HUDSON 


After ten days the letter came; it was as satisfy¬ 
ing or as unsatisfying as such things generally are, 
and ran as follows:— 

Darling, I waited to write because I couldn’t say 
what I wanted to—namely, that you must come back 
to London at once to be in readiness for our marriage 
at the earliest possible moment. But you will have 
pictured to yourself what it means, this return of an 
only son to his horrible ancestral home after two years’ 
absence. Even the prodigal was never feasted as I have 
been, to the detriment of my nerves and digestion. The 
dinners and lunches, the cricket-matches, the perpetual 
entertaining, a week-end spent at Sir Timothy Cle- 
thorpe’s under precisely the same conditions as prevail 
here, only exaggerated, and far more highly colored. 
Different faces round you, a little more to eat, a more 
strenuous luxury, a more complicated round of pleasure. 
The damsel is really charming, and for an heiress is 
remarkably pretty. She is as dark as you and even 
taller, but her eyes are blue, and I like your darling 
brown ones best. I have never met anyone so well- 
educated and expensive; her year in Paris was not 
wasted. I wish I had never seen you, for I am sure 
I should have fallen sufficiently in love with her to 
invite her to share my somewhat dubious prospects and 
brand-new title if I had not landed at Venice last 
month. You are a witch, my precious one. The fair 
Isolde is of the sweet type, she never saj^s anything 
witty or ironic or unexpected. She ought to be a 
diplomat’s wife—she would play the part of ambassa¬ 
dress very prettily in a few years’ time. It is touching 
to see my father so charming to her. I think she has 
cast spells over him. Sir Timothy is always devising 
sports for his pretty niece. Balls, tennis, dinners . . . 
I am a standing dish at them all. Alas, I am the horse 
conducted with such kindness and consideration and 
forethought and firmness withal, to the water, who yet 
most churlishly refuseth to drink! Because the poor 
devil has drunk of the water of life—which is love— 
he turns from all less divine draughts. Venice and 
Viola, and the moonlight on the lagoon! “The time 


VIOLA HUDSON 


in 


and the place and the loved one all together,” a com¬ 
bination which Browning said never happened. I feel 
I could give Browning points! . . . 

Can you stay in durance vile a little longer? My 
father is not well, he is in bed with a touch of bronchitis; 
he is in a curiously paternal mood, so you may guess 
what a good boy I have been since my return. He will 
hardly have me out of his sight. To go up to London 
and search for rooms and make plans for your coming, is 
out of the question. I must be at hand, a patient and 
devoted son. My hours of relaxation must be spent 
under Sir Timothy’s roof. But I am playing the part 
with quite enormous success. I have never so basked 
in the sunshine of parental approbation. Even my 
mother’s suspicions (they were aroused, you know) are 
quieted. But she seldom speaks of you. She had your 
pretty note of thanks and seemed pleased with it. She 
said, ‘‘Viola is a dear girl, and I think I shall have her 
to stay with me next winter and marry her to Vincent 
Astbury.” My darling, he is the only R. C. within 
a radius of twenty miles; he has his own chapel, is 
something of a recluse, and looks quite different from 
any man of his age I’ve ever seen. He must be thirtyish 
now. He doesn’t hunt, shoot, play cricket or tennis, 
but I believe he writes a little, and plays the violin in 
the bosom of his family, which consists of an elderly 
mother, devoted to good works, and two plain elderly 
sisters who call him “Vinny” and adore him. Such 
an environment cannot he good for any man, and I 
chuckle when I think of my own pretty Papist in that 
gallery. It would be almost like a return to Miss Mal- 
leson’s rule, minus of course the corporal punishment! 
Fastings and confessions and austere Lents—you’d have 
them all. But I mustn’t even in fun satirize these 
things which have all helped to make you what you are, 
the most delicious, lovely, bewildering creature in the 
world. A plague on all the Isolde Clethorpes! Did you 
know her name was Isolde? It is quite pretty and suits 
her. I think all the good fairies must have mustered at 
her christening, and perhaps they were a little bit afraid 
of Sir Timothy and so were unusually assiduous in 
their well-wishing. . . . 


I 12 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Are you happy in Venice, my own one ? Do you pray 
for me a great deal ? I like to think that you do. I am a 
miserable sinner, but I love you. 

Esme Craye. 

At first the letter pleased her, but on a second 
reading at night just before she retired to bed it 
flung her into a strange agitation that produced 
a return of the old sleeplessness. She perceived 
so clearly the beginnings of an interest in Isolde 
Clethorpe. And for the first time in her life Viola 
knew what it was to be jealous; she felt the cold 
claws clutching at her heart so that it seemed to 
“wither away for fear.” Her peace was for the 
moment completely destroyed. How could she have 
spent these days in such tranquil acceptance of sepa¬ 
ration? She had not only acquiesced in it but she 
had even found a strange refreshment in that soli¬ 
tude. She had been without misgivings or fears. 
She had not even allowed her thoughts to dwell too 
concentratedly upon Esme; it sufficed her to know 
that he was in England, that he loved her, that 
he was hers. The separation was to be as brief 
as he could make it. She had sometimes even 
dreaded his summons for her to go back to Eng¬ 
land. It would mean the end of her girlhood, a 
closing down of the chapter, the beginning of a new 
life. And now she saw without possibility of mis¬ 
take that Esme had plunged gayly into new interests, 
even into a fresh flirtation—yes, the hard word 
would come. He had not attempted to hide from 
her the fact that Miss Clethorpe possessed “all 
the gifts from all the heights.” Subtle pressure 
was no doubt being brought to bear by the elders 
on both sides. The trap was overflung with flowers, 
so that all its grim iron teeth were hidden. Esme 
. . . and Miss Clethorpe. Isolde ... a pretty 
name ... it suited her . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


ii 3 

Viola’s eyes were hot and dry and tearless. She 
was too angry to cry. But the strange fierce indig¬ 
nation was mingled with something that seemed 
like the breaking of her heart with grief. Grief 
at the loss of Esme—and of something in him that 
had seemed so perfect. It was degrading to think 
that he could go straight from her kisses to another 
girl more beautiful and wealthy and far more suit¬ 
able as a wife for him than she could ever be. 

Early on the following morning she wrote her 
answer to the letter. It ran as follows: 

Dear Esme : 

Your letter came yesterday. I am so glad you are 
happy at home and that your father is so friendly toward 
you. I am sure you must wish to study his desires in 
every way, and as you already admire Miss Clethorpe 
so much, I strongly advise you to marry her. You will 
please so many people by doing so—your parents, Sir 
Timothy, Miss Clethorpe herself, and surely you will 
share too in the general happiness. I feel you will only 
be relieved at my giving you back your freedom in this 
way. Eve only had such a little bit of it, haven’t I ? 
Even Miss Clethorpe can’t grudge me such a tiny scrap 
of your affection and approval. I feel like a wise 
elderly relation giving you good advice. You will 
remember my old inability to cry out when I was hurt? 
Well, I’m not going to cry now. Not a single tear. 
Although to you I needn’t even pretend that I’m not 
hurt. Last night I even thought it might kill me to 
lose you, but this morning I’m quite hard and brave 
and sensible. When I promised to marry you I was, 
as you knew, faithless to other things, and so I thor¬ 
oughly deserved to be punished. And I am being 
punished. 

I’m sure you’ll make Miss Clethorpe very happy. 
You needn’t tell her about me unless you like. Tell 
her after you are married. She won’t mind so much 

then. 

Your affectionate old friend, 

Viola. 



VIOLA HUDSON 


114 

She dropped a great tear on the blotting paper. 
But the letter itself was unsmudged, and from the 
first word to the last the handwriting was admirably 
firm and clear. She read it through once, and then 
folded it and put it into the envelope, addressed to 
Esme’s club in London. She had the feeling that 
she had dug her own grave. But hadn’t his letter, 
all the way through, been an unformulated appeal 
for freedom? To be released from chains that 
irked? Venice and its glamor had faded into the 
distance, and with it Viola’s figure. He had only 
loved her for a few days. The passion was not 
permanent. And she might have known that he 
would be cowardly when it came to the point. He 
had always been cowardly in a moral sense, afraid 
to face the consequences of his own actions, taking 
refuge in the meanness of lying. And there was 
Miss Clethorpe, perhaps aware in a cool detached 
way that she was expected to make this brilliant 
marriage with Lord Bethnell’s only son. Not car¬ 
ing . . . oh, never caring as she, Viola, had 
done! . . . 

And then she laughed at this absurd reflection. 
For of course every woman to whom Esme showed 
the slightest attention must inevitably fall a little 
in love with him. It was possible that Isolde Cle¬ 
thorpe (yes, it was a pretty name,) might love him 
as Viola herself loved him, with a fierce love that 
cried out for its due return. 

There would be time to post the letter before 
the twelve o’clock breakfast. Viola put on a shady 
hat and went out. At that hour the fondamenta 
was almost deserted, and there was no sign even of 
the little brown bathers. She went down to the 
landing-stage and took the first steamer that stopped 
there. 

The air from the canal blew freshly and restored 
her. She had acted on impulse, but something 


VIOLA HUDSON 


ii 5 

assured her that the impulse was due in some 
measure to the convent atmosphere. All these days 
she had been impregnated with it; had experienced 
its resistless pressure upon her. Esme had only 
made her task a little easier by showing her his own 
unmistakable desire for freedom. And she had 
always doubted him. It had not even deceived her 
when he wrote that he had known “the time and 
the place and the loved one all together.” He had 
only succumbed to the rather insistent glamor of 
Venice with its eternal appeal to lovers, and she had 
happened to be pretty and charming enough to 
satisfy his fastidious taste. He had quite believed 
himself to be in love, and he had persuaded her to 
share in the belief. 

That was all, she thought, as she walked across 
the sunny square of St. Mark’s, where the vain 
and greedy pigeons were disporting and preening 
themselves in the brilliant June sunshine. Some 
tourists were sitting there feeding the birds which 
clustered about them, perching on their shoulders 
and hands, and devouring the seeds flung to them, 
as if they had been famished. 

She went across to the post-office and dropped her 
letter into the box. The little sound it made in fall¬ 
ing had a touch of finality about it, like earth be¬ 
ing sprinkled upon a coffin. So that was finished, 
and she was glad she had had the courage to write 
it. Yes, glad . . . what a funny word to use in 
connection with this hideous pain that was tearing 
at her heart! . . . But she wasn’t going to cry out. 
She hadn’t been Miss Malleson’s ward all those 
years for nothing. 

It was a relief to feel that the letter was. safely 
posted. It was beyond her power to retrieve it now. 
There were hours, weeks, years of suffering lying 
in front of her, but in that first moment she savored 
a kind of harsh contentment. 


ii6 VIOLA HUDSON 

As yet no contrition for that meditated rebellion 
had entered her heart. She was concerned only with 
her grief at losing Esme. She had acted deliberately 
and the venture hadn’t come off. If she had not 
received his letter and had been urged by the in¬ 
fluence of the convent to renounce this marriage, 
she would have felt the blessed anguish of contri¬ 
tion, that heals even while it wounds. But she had 
not acted from any spiritual motive. She had 
broken off her engagement because Esme had so 
obviously wished her to do so; and she had been 
faced, too, by the degrading conviction that if she 
didn’t give him back his freedom, he would have 
found some way of wriggling out of the chains him¬ 
self. Her face flamed at the thought. To be flung 
aside like a worn-out toy. To be supplanted by 
Miss Clethorpe . . . 

She hurried on to a little landing-stage near a 
big hotel. Soon she had boarded a steamer to take 
her back to the convent. Beautiful palaces rose on 
either side of the Grand Canal, making that broad 
stream the most sumptuous quarter in the world. 
Gondolas rocked idly, fastened to the great gayly- 
painted posts that rose out of the water. Life must 
indeed be pleasant, spent in one of those splendid, 
decorative, spacious abodes. Now she was passing 
the palace where Lady Bethnell’s former apartment 
was situated. The brown awnings hung down over 
the carved stone loggia. Viola thought then with 
a shudder of Percival’s smug, well-appointed house. 
She remembered the dark and thick fog that had 
prevailed on the day when Lady Bethnell came to 
see her. 

Some day she would have to go back there. It 
would be very soon now—she was coming to the 
end of her money. It was the only home she had. 
She wasn’t clever enough to earn her own living. No 
one would take a governess who was both pretty 


VIOLA HUDSON 117 

and young. The unshed tears seared her eyelids. 

Oh, it had always been there-—even in her hap¬ 
piest hours with Esme—this little dread that he 
might prove faithless. And always, too, there had 
been Something behind it all that would not permit 
her conscience to enjoy a moment’s ease. Was it 
that she wasn’t to be allowed to break the laws of 
that great Power to whose service she had been 
dedicated from childhood? She had too much sense 
of religion not to have considered this point of 
view with a certain terror. People were saved 
from committing a sin sometimes in spite of them¬ 
selves. What seemed like the cruelty of frustration 
was really a mercy. But she had at worst medi¬ 
tated only a temporary rebellion against the laws 
of her Church. She hadn’t meant to cut herself 
adrift always. She had intended only one false step, 
to be retrieved as soon as possible. And now she 
felt as if she had been pulled up sharply as with a 
curb on the very brink of the precipice. 

Perhaps in Heaven Miss Malleson was praying 
for her, just as the nuns in the convent must have 
been praying for her, aware that hers was a soul in 
distress and difficulty. 

Viola went back to the convent curiously quieted, 
her brain and heart frozen into a kind of numbness. 
There were drugs that rendered your body insensible 
to pain or any feeling even while they did not de¬ 
prive you in the least degree of consciousness. She 
felt as if some such drug had been poured into her 
heart. 


CHAPTER XI 

A WEEK passed. During that week Viola 
did not again leave the convent. She was 
half afraid that even such a slight contact as that 
with the outside world might diminish her new- 


118 


VIOLA HUDSON 


found peace. She was like one recovering from an 
operation, suffering sharply and continuously, and 
yet blissful in the knowledge that the horror was 
overpassed. She did not wish to endanger that re¬ 
covered peace of mind, of conscience, of soul . . . 

One morning Mother Gabrielle came into her 
room and said: 

“My dear, an English priest is coming this morn¬ 
ing to hear confessions. You know we have two 
English nuns here, besides three of the children who 
can as yet speak no other language. I thought per¬ 
haps you might like to take the opportunity. . . 

She paused, fixing her kind and wise eyes upon 
Viola. 

“Oh, no, no . . . I think Ed rather not—at 
least to-day. I’m not feeling prepared—you see, 
it’s some little time. Perhaps when he comes 
again.” She uttered the excuses lamely, hesitatingly. 

“Just as you like, my dear. But don’t put it off 
too long. We are too apt to say ‘another time’ with¬ 
out thinking of what Almighty God intends for us. 
And if we have done anything to offend, there is 
all the more reason why we shouldn’t delay. We 
must make haste to seek His pardon—to win His 
friendship once more. The soul needs her medicine 
—her nourishment—just as much as the body.” 

“Yes, Mother,” said Viola, humbly, with down¬ 
cast eyes. “I know that, but I feel I can’t to-day.” 

She followed the nun to the door. “Pray for 
me,” she said, and now her voice trembled a little. 

“We are all praying for you, my dear child,” 
said Mother Gabrielle, in her kind matter-of-fact 
voice. 

She went away, leaving Viola trembling and ex¬ 
cited, on the verge of tears. 

She sat down by the open window, for here on 
the north side of the house the sunshine did not in¬ 
trude, and looked out upon the garden, at the pl.ot 


VIOLA HUDSON 


119 

of turf growing a little brown, with its fountain in 
the middle. Beyond, gleaming in a grove of ilex- 
trees, there was a white statue of the Madonna. 
Viola’s eyes rested on the fresh verdure, the clus¬ 
tered decorative roses that blossomed so prodigally, 
the white and rose-colored oleanders that were 
breaking into bloom, fragile as flames. Overhead 
the sky was of a deep sapphire blue, serene and 
cloudless. 

As she sat there, she heard a knock at the door 
and a lay-sister came into the room, carrying a tele¬ 
gram. Viola hastily scrawled her signature on the 
receipt offered to her, and then waited till she was 
alone before she opened the envelope. The mes¬ 
sage ran as follows: 

“Your sweet absurd letter received. Return imme¬ 
diately. All arrangements made wire time arrival. 

Esme. 

She sank into a chair. Her limbs trembled so 
violently that for a moment she almost feared that 
she was going to faint. The whole world seemed 
buzzing and whirling above her in dizzy gyrations 
of hot white light. She felt the clamor of wheels 
in her head. 

Little by little calm came back to her. She 
hadn’t lost Esme. He still loved her. He refused 
to accept his dismissal. He didn’t love Isolde 
Clethorpe. He loved her, and he wanted her to 
go back to England and marry him as soon as pos¬ 
sible. Yes, she was going to be his wife. She 
mustn’t think of anything else now. She had been 
prepared—hadn’t she given proof of it?—to make 
a sacrifice, but now it was no longer necessary. . 
Not necessary? Across the silence she seemed to 
hear Mother Gabrielle’s controlled emotionless 
voice saying: u We are too apt to say another time, 


120 


VIOLA HUDSON 


without thinking of what Almighty God intends 
for us.” Viola turned a little pale. She was aware, 
as never before, of her own dreadful and deadly 
possession of free-will—that inalienable gift that be¬ 
stows upon each one the final choice between good 
and evil. In the end you were left to decide for 
yourself, so her thoughts ran. You had help—every 
help. You were given the strength necessary to 
resist temptation. You could fling yourself on 
your knees and pray to Almighty God to be saved 
from the sin, so deadly in its insidious attraction, 
for which you were prepared to barter for your im¬ 
mortal soul. But always the ultimate decision 
rested with yourself. You were perfectly free to 
obey or to rebel, to serve or to refuse submission. 

“An Englsh priest is coming this morning to hear 
confessions. ...” It was simply horrible to be 
tortured like this. She felt as if her heart were be¬ 
ing torn in two. Why had the telegram arrived 
almost immediately after Mother Gabrielle’s brief 
visit? Viola was reminded of the meditation en¬ 
titled the Two Standards —perhaps the most power¬ 
ful of all the Exercises of St. Ignatius. At school it 
had never failed to make the most profound im¬ 
pression on her, so that for days afterward she 
had gone softly, as one in fear . . . 

“I thought perhaps you might like to take the 
opportunity. . . .” 

The sentences dropping one by one from those 
calm lips haunted her. They echoed pitilessly in 
her brain. Conscience caught up the cry and told 
her: “Yes, she was right—you ought to go to con¬ 
fession. Yes, this morning. You ought to tell the 
priest everything. You ought to ask his advice. 
And he would tell you that you can’t possibly 
marry Esme without obtaining the necessary dis¬ 
pensations. ...” 

She looked again at the telegram. “Your sweet 


VIOLA HUDSON 


121 


absurd letter—” it was so like Esme to waste his 
money on those two unnecessary adjectives. A men¬ 
tal picture of him rose up before her mind. She 
saw him standing on the wet steps outside the palace, 
the water of the Canal washing at his feet. She 
could see his tall graceful form clad in its gray flannel 
suit; the brushed sleek head of thick crinkly fair 
hair; the green eyes clear as water. He was 
smiling at her. . . . 

She had been wrong then not to trust him. He 
had meant what he said—every word of it. He in¬ 
tended to marry her. He did love her, and was 
prepared even to face a measure of poverty for her 
sake. He was calling to her now across the sea. 
His voice echoed in her ears, drowning the calm 
speech of Mother Gabrielle. 

“I must go to him,” said Viola. 

She went to the chest of drawers and began to 
take out her possessions, as if in preparation for 
packing her trunk. But wouldn’t it look rather 
queer to go away to-day? The nuns would con¬ 
clude that the telegram contained bad news, sum¬ 
moning her home. And she would have to pretend 
that all was well. She would have at least to fib 
a little. The first perhaps of a long, long line of 
lies, smudging her soul. 

She put the things back into the drawer. She 
couldn’t decide so quickly as all that. She would 
wait a day or two. She could make some excuse 
to Esme afterward. But she couldn’t start to-day. 
She wondered irrelevantly if the English priest had 
arrived, if he was sitting now in his confessional in 
the chapel, with his little row of penitents awaiting 
their turn to go up and kneel at the grating and 
make their confession and receive absolution. She 
pictured herself going down, entering the chapel 
with a black veil on her head, taking her place at 
the end of the bench, awaiting her turn. 


122 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Again there was a knock at the door. Oh, why 
couldn’t they leave her alone this morning? There 
was almost a fretful sound in her voice as she cried, 
Avanti! Looking up, she saw that it was Mother 
Gabrielle who had returned. 

“I just came to tell you that the English priest 
is in the chapel now—hearing confessions. I 
thought you might have changed your mind.” 

“No, I haven’t changed,” said Viola, almost sul¬ 
lenly. She felt indignant with Mother Gabrielle 
for her insistence. It was as if the nun had become 
aware of that dreadful interior conflict that was 
shaking her very life to its foundations. 

“You have had a telegram?” said Mother Ga¬ 
brielle, approaching the window. “I hope you 
haven’t received bad news?” 

“No—nothing bad. It may mean, though, that 
I shall have to go home a little sooner than I ex¬ 
pected,” stammered Viola. 

“We always like to go to confession before a 
long journey,” said Mother Gabrielle, gently. “It’s 
as well to be in a state of grace—” 

And she looked almost pleadingly at Viola. 

“Not to-day. I’m really not prepared—” The 
girl’s voice betrayed annoyance. 

Mother Gabrielle went out of the room. 

Perhaps the nuns guessed that something was 
wrong. Viola had been assiduous in going to Mass 
and Benediction, but she had never once made her 
confession or received Holy Communion. All her 
outward calm didn’t deceive them. They knew per¬ 
haps that hers was a soul astray, tortured, restless, 
the prey of conflicting forces. 

“I must go away—I can’t bear it,” she said, aloud. 

She sat there with hands clenched, fighting against 
that fierce, growing desire to go down to the chapel 
and make her confession and receive absolution. 
The impulse was as imperative as any she had ever 


VIOLA HUDSON 


123 

known. The desire was a kind of gnawing spiritual 
hunger. All her past training, the teaching and 
molding of so many years, was in league with it, 
supporting it, strengthening it. She could hear the 
words of absolution—those divinely healing words. 
Oh, she had known the comfort of them, even after 
the nursery sins of childhood. The words in a state 
of grace echoed in her ears. The promise of pardon 
for all that deliberately meditated rebellion, seemed 
like some fair fruit, high up, almost out of reach, 
yet just, just within her power to obtain if she 
strove loftily. But on the other side stood Esme, 
with smiling face, pulling her back to earth, the 
good comfortable earth. She hid her face in her 
hands. The clamor of conflict was exhausting her. 

She felt, too, as if Miss Malleson’s stern eyes 
were watching her to see whether duty or inclination 
would prevail. 

“We always like to go to confession before a 
long journey . . .” 

She shivered. But there would be time to make 
amends. Even the Prodigal Son was given oppor¬ 
tunities for remorse and contrition. He wasn’t 
allowed to die of hunger among the husks. And 
perhaps when she went back to England she would 
be able to persuade Esme to have the marriage in 
a Catholic church. At least there was no sin in go¬ 
ing back to England, in seeing him again. Even if 
in the end she found it necessary to break off the 
engagement. . . . 

She knew that she was deceiving herself with 
these thoughts. What she ought to do was to go 
to confession now, to ask advice, and then perhaps 
entreat Mother Gabrielle to allow her to remain 
hidden in the convent, secure against the temptation 
that would assail her afresh if she went home. They 
would never refuse their consent if she gave such 
a reason; on the contrary, they would urge her to 


124 


VIOLA HUDSON 


remain. But to fail Esme now, would be to lose 
him forever. She knew him well enough to feel 
certain of that. If he could not marry her, he 
would set himself seriously to the task of loving 
and winning Miss Clethorpe. His letter had shown 
her that he would not find it a matter of much diffi¬ 
culty. Already he was attracted by her, by her 
beauty, her charm, enhanced perhaps by an expen¬ 
sive education, a wide culture. He would be happy, 
for he loved an atmosphere of approbation and ad¬ 
miration. He would enjoy permanently his father’s 
favor. The sharp jealousy she had known when she 
first read his letter was clawing again at her heart, 
tearing it. She couldn’t give him up. She loved 
him. She wanted to be his wife, to spend her life 
at his side. 

She went back to the chest of drawers and meth¬ 
odically emptied it of its contents, laying her posses¬ 
sions in neat rows on the bed. Soon it would be 
time for lunch, and after that meal she would go out 
and buy her ticket and send a telegram to Esme 
telling him when to expect her. She wasn’t going 
to let herself be nervous or frightened; she wasn’t 
a weak person who hesitated and feared and couldn’t 
make up her mind. 

Her face was very hard and set, as she dragged 
her trunk from beneath the bed and began to pack. 
The little activity soothed her. She had been idle 
the whole morning—no wonder her nerves were 
shaken. 

Once she glanced at the clock. The priest would 
have finished hearing confessions by this time. 
Probably he had gone home. 

We are too apt to say “another time” without 
thinking of what Almighty God intends for us. . . . 

The words haunted her uncomfortably. It con¬ 
soled her, however, to remember that Esme would 


VIOLA HUDSON 


125 

have laughed at her fears. His easy incredulity 
would perhaps even have chased them away—for 
the time being. 


CHAPTER XII 

T HE boat train from Dover rushed into the 
London terminus toward the close of a lovely 
afternoon in late June. Viola stood near the cor¬ 
ridor window, her eyes strained to catch sight of 
Esme on the platform. There were a great many 
people, and in the bustle and confusion of arrival 
she did not at first discern that tall figure. Suppos¬ 
ing he hadn’t come, after all? But such a thing 
was unthinkable, since the success of their whole 
plan depended upon his meeting her, and escorting 
her to the lodgings he had found for her. 

“It’s rather like Richard Feverel—” she thought. 
Only, that Richard had been full of ardor and 
eagerness to find Lucy; he had had no Isolde Cle- 
thorpe to distract him just before his marriage. 

When Viola searched her heart in self-examina¬ 
tion, she was uncomfortably aware that her jealousy 
of Miss Clethorpe had been one of the principal 
reasons for her ready acquiescence in Esme’s plan. 
If it hadn’t been for this other girl, so perfect, so 
wonderful, she would have hesitated and tempor¬ 
ized, yielding only when no other solution was pos¬ 
sible. 

No one knew that she was leaving Venice except 
Esme. Percival and Cecily believed her to be set¬ 
tled at the convent for some time to come, and prob¬ 
ably felt it was quite natural she should wish to be 
there. Perhaps they hoped she would develop a 
vocation, and become a nun. They must have felt 
that she wouldn’t long be content with the kind of 
life they were able to offer her, acting as governess 


126 


VIOLA HUDSON 


to their two dull children. Viola was aware that she 
was something of a problem to them, and she had 
always felt that her sister-in-law disliked her. They 
would of course be delighted if she married Esme— 
they would think her a fool to permit any religious 
scruples to deter her from making such a brilliant 
match as that. 

As she descended from the train, she pulled down 
her rather thick black veil so that it entirely hid her 
features. She was suddenly alarmed lest she should 
meet someone she knew—someone who might men¬ 
tion to Cecily that they had seen her. 

Presently she saw Esme sauntering down the plat¬ 
form toward her. He had not as yet perceived her, 
so that she had the advantage of him. She watched 
him attentively, noted his easy nonchalant grace of 
bearing, the lissom, supple, upright figure, hard and 
thin. He had the unconscious arrogance of the 
man whose place in the world is both important and 
assured. 

He quickened his footsteps. She knew he had 
seen her. Her heart beat more quickly. He came 
up and took her hand. 

“Darling,” he murmured. 

It was some time before her luggage was cleared. 
Her modest trunk was then hoisted upon a four- 
wheeler, which formed the usual conveyance in those 
days of the early ’nineties when there was luggage 
to be transported. Within, there was a musty odor 
as of damp velvet mingled with straw. The seats 
were hard, the windows rattled abominably, the 
jolting was unbroken by anything so civilized as 
rubber tires upon the wheels. But Viola did not 
heed these minor discomforts, indeed she probably 
did not notice them at all. She was sitting beside 
Esme, and his hand held hers with a firm tight 
grasp. 

“Keep your veil down,” he said, authoritatively, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


127 

when he discerned a slight gesture on her part as 
if she intended to lift it. “You mustn’t be seen, you 
know.” 

He thought he had never realized before how con¬ 
spicuous she was in her loveliness, her air of the 
pretty admired woman, her increased assurance, 
which no doubt the fact of their betrothal had be¬ 
stowed upon her. 

“You are so dazzling to-day,” he added, in a light 
bantering tone. “I feel as if all the world must be 
looking at you and wondering who you are!” 

Viola laughed. “And I feel simply horrible, after 
that long night journey. And the sea was quite 
rough.” She tried to make her voice sound cool 
and steady. 

“We haven’t far to go. By the way, your name is 
Mansfield. Miss Mansfield.” 

“Mansfield!” repeated Viola, completely mysti¬ 
fied. 

“You see, we must be very careful. So much de¬ 
pends upon our prudence, our discretion.” 

“Does it? I think I hate all this secrecy. It 
makes me feel there must be something wrong.” 

“Oh, I hoped you’d left all your scruples behind 
at the convent.” 

“A convent isn’t the best place to get rid of 
scruples in.” 

He felt her mood to be tantalizing. Why 
couldn’t she yield herself up wholly to the complete 
bliss of the present moment? He had looked for¬ 
ward to their meeting with an ardor which had 
seemed even to himself almost inexplicable. And 
she had come, looking more beautiful than ever. 
He told himself that he was more deeply in love 
with her than he had ever been. 

“Still, you must have got rid of some of them or 
you wouldn’t be here,” he reminded her. 

“I suppose not,” she assented, a little wearily. 


128 VIOLA HUDSON 

She had a longing then, to lean her face against his 
shoulder and cry. She was tired and miserable and 
even a little chilled, despite the bright warmth of 
the June day. And she had hoped and believed that 
to see Esme again would mean nothing but happi¬ 
ness. His presence had always had the power to 
calm and soothe her. 

She told herself that it was impossible to shake 
herself free all at once from the convent atmos¬ 
phere. It had affected her very strongly, and it still 
made her feel that she had paid too high a price 
for this present happiness. She glanced at Esme, 
at his hard, cold, clean-cut face. Less than ever 
could she cherish any hope that he would yield to 
her entreaties and allow the ceremony to take place 
in a Catholic church. She had tried to justify her 
action in coming, by the consoling thought that now 
he would certainly give in. She had clung to this 
false hope. But when she looked at him now, it died. 

The cab stopped at last before a bleak little 
house, built of discolored brick. It had an un- 
happy, forlorn, smudged aspect, and was in truth a 
sordid little place. The very sight of it depressed 
her. Those murky lace curtains—that door of dull 
and blistered paint. How could Esme have chosen 
such dismal lodgings for her? 

And she would be alone here, perhaps for some 
weeks. She had never in her life been alone in such 
circumstances, and the prospect made her nervous. 

The driver pulled up his horse, dismounted, seized 
her box and put it on the pavement. When the 
door was opened he almost flung it into the hall. 

A woman stood on the doorstep. 

“First floor, ain’t it?” she asked, speaking with 
a sharp cockney accent. 

“Yes—this is Miss Mansfield,” said Esme, loftily. 

Viola began to feel an unreasoning dislike to the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


129 

name of Mansfield. She wondered why Esme had 
chosen it. 

He climbed the narrow steep little flight of stairs, 
and opened the first door on the right, disclosing a 
small sitting-room furnished as a drawing-room, 
with terrible pictures and photographs, a suite of 
chairs upholstered in crimson rep, a cabinet con¬ 
taining specimens of imitation china, a round table 
with a large green wool mat and a lamp standing 
upon it. There was a window screened by a pair 
of grimy lace curtains. Behind, through an open 
door, Viola saw a small square dark bedroom look¬ 
ing out upon a tiny grimy yard and overshadowed 
by the backs of the opposite houses. 

“Not half bad, is it?” said Esme, cheerfully. 

“Oh, no. It’ll do quite well.” 

The servant had left them, to see about bringing 
up the box, and they were alone in the sitting-room. 

“Put up your veil, darling,” said Esme. 

She obeyed him with trembling fingers. 

“I must look hideous—” she said, with a pale 
little smile. 

He drew her to him and kissed her. 

She thought: “When he’s here I forget every¬ 
thing. He must never let me remember . . But 
aloud she only said, “Esme, Esme!” and kissed and 
clung to him, like a child seeking comfort. 

“How beautiful you are,” he said, quietly, scan¬ 
ning her face with a close scrutiny. “Do you love 
me, Viola?” 

“If I hadn’t loved you more than all the world, 
I shouldn’t be here to-day,” she assured him. 

He left her side to give some orders to the serv¬ 
ant, who, with the help of a girl, was struggling to 
carry the trunk into the bedroom. Then he shut 
the door again and came back to the place where 
Viola was standing. He was aware of the depres¬ 
sion that had come over her, and he attributed it to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


130 

the surroundings. They were gloomy, and the 
street certainly looked a very squalid one, despite 
the fact that it was barely ten minutes’ walk from 
the Marble Arch. But it was only for a short 
time, and he hadn’t dared get anything very expen¬ 
sive; she must try to make the best of it. 

She was very pale, and her lips were closed in a 
hard firm line as if she were struggling to repress 
some powerful emotion. There were little purple 
stains of fatigue under her eyes. She looked both 
tragic and nervous. 

“Sit down. You look half dead,’’ he said. 

Viola sat down on the hard sofa. Esme sat by 
her side, with his arm clasped about her. 

“What on earth made you write that letter to 
me?” he inquired, presently. “I tried to remember 
what I could possibly have said to provoke it!” 
His tone was slightly injured. 

“I felt it was what you wanted me to write,” 
said Viola. “You were attracted by Miss Clethorpe 
—you didn’t try to hide it, your own letter was full 
of her. And I realized how much wiser and safer 
it would be for you to do just what Lord Bethnell 
wished.” 

“I have never made a fetish of filial duty,” said 
Esme, coolly. 

“But this was an agreeable duty—” said Viola, 
bitterly. 

Esme took her hand and kissed it. 

“Don’t let’s quarrel, darling. I’ve been looking 
forward to this more than you can quite realize.” 

She was instantly melted. When he spoke to her 
in that way, she found it impossible to resist him. 

“Forgive me, Esme,” she said. “It was so diffi¬ 
cult to believe you could really care for me. And 
everyone will say I’m not good enough. Whereas 
Miss Clethorpe . . .” 

The thought of entering a family that denied 


VIOLA HUDSON 


131 

her welcome was hateful to her. They would be ut¬ 
terly indifferent to the sacrifice she had made. Her 
religion would always be hateful to them. It would 
prevent her from ever being quite acceptable. Did 
Esme think of this? Did he ever look beyond the 
pleasure of the moment? 

“Oh, don’t think of all that dark ugly side,” he 
said. “Our love is such a new beautiful thing— 
we ought to enjoy it.” 

She was silent, leaning against him, gaining a little 
comfort from the contact. Love had not come to 
her, as it came to so many women, in the guise of 
wonderful unalloyed happiness. There were com¬ 
plications and obstacles connected with it that 
pricked her continually; she seemed to be smarting 
perpetually from tiny wounds that in the aggregate 
were extremely painful. 

“Yes, yes. I know. But I’m not accustomed to 
happiness, and I'm afraid of it.” 

“You are not very flattering,” he said. Her atti¬ 
tude stung his pride. He felt that his love when 
bestowed should be productive of the most perfect 
happiness in the so favored recipient. 

“Esme, I’m tired. I shall be better when I’ve had 
a cup of tea and some sleep.” 

“Of course. But I’ve ordered tea—it ought to 
be ready soon. Did you travel straight through?” 

“Yes.” 

“I hope you had a sleeper?” 

“No. And the train was very full—I had to sit 
up all night.” 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!” 

“I couldn’t afford anything else. I’d come prac¬ 
tically to the end of all my money.” 

“But didn’t my mother—?” 

“Oh, no. Of course if I’d traveled back with her 
it would have been different.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


132 

The servant brought in the tea. It was strong 
and bitter, and Viola could hardly drink it. She had 
a passionate longing to be alone, but Esme seemed 
to be enjoying the little meal, disposing rapidly of 
the thick slices of bread-and-butter, from, which 
Viola turned in inarticulate disgust. 

She watched him, half-fascinated. He looked 
smart and well-groomed, and his new London 
clothes fitted him to perfection. His fair crinkled 
hair was brushed to a fine polish. She thought his 
eyes were strange and stealthy, like a cat’s. His 
beautiful mouth was curved in a whimsical smile. 
She was sure that he didn’t realize in the least how 
unhappy and frightened she was—how miserable she 
had been during the few weeks of their separation. 

“Feeling better now?” he asked her, suddenly. 
He cherished a conviction that women were always 
hysterical when they were overtired. They couldn’t 
really bear anything. . . . 

“Yes, thank you. But I’m tired. I think I’d 
like to rest.” 

“Very well. I’ll come back at seven to take you 
out to dine somewhere.” 

“No, please not, Esme. If I want anything to 
eat I’ll have it here. At present I only want to 
sleep.” 

His face fell. “Then I’m not to see you till to¬ 
morrow?” 

“To-morrow—as early as you like. I always get 
up early.” 

“But I’ve a thousand things to tell you. And I 
must go back to Ardlesham to-morrow afternoon. 
I’m due at a dinner party.” 

“At the Clethorpes’?” she asked. 

“Exactly—at the Clethorpes’.” But his voice 
betrayed annoyance. 

“You won’t be away long?” 


VIOLA HUDSON 133 

“Possibly a few days. They don’t like my being 
away.” 

It was her turn to be disconcerted. 

“Esme, if you leave me here for very long by my¬ 
self I shall go back to Cecily! I know I can’t bear 
it here. These awful rooms—!” Her eyes flashed. 
He might so easily have found a more agreeable 
abode for her. This one had two merits in his eyes 
—it was obscure and therefore safe. That was no 
doubt why he had chosen it. His efforts to ensure 
secrecy at all costs, annoyed her. For, after all, 
there was no real need, if he had had the courage 
of a mouse. 

“Do you really hate them so much? I thought 
they’d do all right for a few weeks.’’ 

“Do you think Miss Clethorpe would stay in 
them for an hour?’’ she demanded, passionately. 

“But, my darling child—we’ve nothing to do with 
Miss Clethorpe!’’ 

“And, then, if you leave me here and spend all 
your time at Ardlesham!’’ 

“But don’t you see, if I’m continually in and out 
people will begin to talk?” 

“Who is there to talk?” 

“Well, the landlady for one.” 

“She doesn’t even know who I am!” 

“These people have odd ways of finding out 
things.” 

“Well, who cares?” 

“I care very much,” he answered, stiffly. “Every¬ 
thing depends on our behaving prudently now. 
You’re tired, Viola, and that makes you look at 
things in a distorted light.” 

He got up, took his hat and stick, and prepared 
for departure. When she saw that he was really 
going, she had an absurd impulse to beseech him to 
remain. It was only six o’clock, and if she went to 
bed now there was little likelihood of her falling 


/ 


134 


VIOLA HUDSON 


asleep for some hours to come. She would spend 
a wretched time, tossing upon what certainly prom¬ 
ised to be a hard uncomfortable bed. She thought 
of her room at the convent with a passion of long¬ 
ing, its cleanliness, its simplicity, the light and air 
that poured in so bountifully from the Venetian sky. 
The tranquil ordered days she had spent there 
seemed so perfect in retrospect, that she wondered 
how she could ever have left those walls to embark 
upon this sordid adventure. She was so nervous, 
so exhausted with fatigue, she could hardly realize 
that she loved Esme. Yet, surely she must love him 
or she wouldn't be here. 

“I’ve been horrid—I’ve done nothing but quar¬ 
rel,” she said, with tears of remorse in her eyes. 

“It’s only because you’re worn out. I ought to 
have seen it, and not tormented you about things.” 

She came up to him and timidly placed her hands 
on his shoulders lifting her face to his, just as a 
child might have done. “Esme!” 

He bent and kissed the lovely uplifted face. 

“You do want me to be your wife?” 

“I’m almost tired of telling you how much!” 
He smiled—that sweet whimsical smile that always 
dominated her. “Don't doubt me—don’t doubt 
me—” he whispered, passionately. 

“You’ll come early to-morrow? Come at nine,” 
she said. 

“Right you are. And, mind, I want to see a very 
cheerful face, darling. We’re going to be so happy, 
you know.” 

He went out of the room. After all, it was a re¬ 
lief to Viola to find herself alone. She felt less 
depressed when he had gone, and almost imme¬ 
diately she went into her bedroom and began to busy 
herself with the task of unpacking a few things for 
the night. Even this little occupation braced her 
nerves and made her feel more normal. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


135 

She hadn’t been nice to Esme. To-morrow she 
would make up for it and show him how charming 
she could be. She hoped he was not comparing her 
too unfavorably with Miss Clethorpe. 

CHAPTER XIII 

V IOLA went to bed early and soon fell asleep 
after the manner of healthy youth. She did 
not even wake to partake of food, but slept on 
until the summer dawn had whitened the sky. It 
was a beautiful day, and even here in this dingy 
London street a sweet freshness stole in through 
the open window, making her think of fields and 
flowers, and grass all drenched and white with dew. 
It was four o’clock. In another five hours’ time 
Esme would come. She must get up early so as to 
be quite ready when he came. The thought com¬ 
forted her, and she turned over on her side and slept 
again. She looked very pretty lying thus, with her 
dark hair loose about her face, framing it in a soft 
dusky cloud. Her cheeks were flushed. She might 
have shed at least four of her eighteen years. 

When she woke again, it was half past seven, and 
she rang the bell for some tea and hot water. Her 
head was clear, freed at last from the sound of 
whirling wheels that had echoed so disagreeably in 
her brain last night, making her feel as if she were 
still sitting cramped and wretched in that rushing 
train. The tea refreshed her, and she rose. She 
did her hair very carefully, and put on a pale gray 
dress of thin muslin. Then she went into the sitting- 
room to wait for Esme. 

Things looked decidedly brighter this morning, 
and she did not hate her surroundings quite so vio¬ 
lently. She could almost feel that she was going to 
be happy here, quietly waiting for her wedding day. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


1 36 

The sun was shining with a soft hazy light that illu¬ 
minated the little street, diminishing its dismal 
aspect. She watched some children at play, grubby 
rosy little people with tumbled flaxen hair. How 
pretty they were—the plump English babies. 
Viola had an almost absurd wish to go down and 
play with them, and kiss their smiling rosy faces. 
She loved children. Margery and Lionel had been 
the exception, they were such cold unresponsive little 
creatures, priggish, critical. Well, she would never 
have to return to that dreary uninspiring routine. 
Idly she wondered what Cecily would say if she 
could see her now, sitting alone in London lodgings, 
waiting for Esme. Eler sense of propriety would 
indubitably be shocked. 

Viola wondered if Esme would really insist upon 
going back to Ardlesham that afternoon. She felt 
that he ought for her sake to have given up that 
dinner party at the Clethorpes’. Her mind traveled 
on swiftly, and she began to picture Isolde with her 
dark hair and blue eyes, her slim willowy figure. 
Did she like Esme? Elad she fallen in love with 
him? It would be difficult, perhaps, not to fall in 
love with Esme—her own subjugation had been but 
the work of a few short hours. If it had only all 
been different. If Esme had but been a poor man 
with his way to make in the world! She felt that 
she would have enjoyed rendering that personal 
service which falls to the poor man’s wife. She 
would have liked to mend his clothes, to learn to 
cook his favorite dishes, and attend to his comfort; 
to feel, in fact, that in all the minor amenities of 
life she was absolutely necessary to him. But some¬ 
how she couldn’t picture Esme as poor. He always 
looked as if he had emerged from the hands of a 
highly accomplished valet, diligent and attentive. 
He could never be happy pinching and saving. And 
if he were to marry Miss Clethorpe, he would be in 


VIOLA HUDSON 


137 

possession of all that wealth could give. Lord 
Bethnell would surely be generous in the matter of 
settlements, if his son made a marriage so greatly 
to his liking. 

A dull envy came over Viola. She wished that 
she could see this Isolde, her unconscious rival, in 
order to know, as one might say, the worst. Some¬ 
thing of the old jealousy seized her. It must be 
so pleasant to meet Esme in that bright, civilized, 
luxurious little world from which she herself was 
now so completely shut out. She was here in these 
dingy lodgings, an unlikely little bride. Hidden 
away by Esme, just as if he had been ashamed of 
her. 

Miss Malleson—Aunt Hope . . . she still felt 
as if she were watching her now disapprovingly, just 
as for months and months after her death Viola had 
had a half superstitious feeling that she was watch¬ 
ing her from another world, from which she would 
certainly have returned to punish her if she could. 
This feeling had kept her from being naughty long 
after that rigid disciplinarian had been laid to rest 
in the Catholic cemetery at Ardlesham. 

Well, she wouldn’t approve if she could see her 
now, that was quite certain. She had never liked 
Esme even as a boy, and then she had always 
warned Viola against making a “mixed” marriage. 

“She used to say I was weak and easily in¬ 
fluenced,” Viola thought. “I suppose she was right. 
Esme makes me weak. I wonder why I’m so horrid 
to him when I love him so much? Perhaps it is 
because I never feel as if he were treating me quite 
fairly. He makes me do things I hate—like coming 
here. We do nothing but quarrel, just when I want 
only to be happy and think of his love.” 

Esme was a little late, although he had made 
heroic efforts to be punctual, feeling that Viola, if 
still in the mood of yesterday, would certainly re- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


138 

sent any even inadvertent lack of eagerness on his 
part. Yesterday’s meeting had been thoroughly 
unsatisfactory; he had never felt less sure of Viola, 
and the sudden dislike she had taken to the rooms 
had seemed to him a trifle exaggerated. But of 
course the whole truth was that she wanted to go 
to Ardlesham and be presented there as his future 
wife, and nothing less than Ardlesham would con¬ 
tent her. . . . 

He had been thoroughly spoilt since his return 
home, and the charming frank courtesy of Isolde’s 
manner, her pretty way of receiving him and making 
him feel at home, contrasted strangely with Viola’s 
resentful, almost hostile, attitude. But Esme was 
in love, more deeply in love than perhaps he well 
knew, and he was able to tell himself that Isolde 
was only a beautiful artificial creature without per¬ 
sonality or temperament, but taught and trained to 
be as effective as possible. Undoubtedly he would 
have married her if he had never seen Viola, and 
they would probably have jogged on quite well 
together, sharing the same worldly tastes, the same 
love of wealth, and of society in its more expensive 
and luxurious phases. But that step aside to join 
his mother at Venice had been a highly fateful move. 
There had been something so enchanting, so idyllic, 
about meeting his old playmate again in those ro¬ 
mantic surroundings, to find too that she had be¬ 
come not only older but lovelier and more delicious 
in the interval. Even during his walk to see her 
that morning, he had been in imagination voyaging 
upon the lagoon with her under that broad dark 
sky scattered with stars; he saw again the dim sil¬ 
houettes of tower and dome, and heard the fierce 
melancholy warning cry of the gondoliers, and the 
distant music throbbing its way across the water. 
He could feel the salt air flowing in from the Adri¬ 
atic, and could visualize the sharp mountain peaks 


VIOLA HUDSON 


i 3 9 

rising in the distance as from a sea of mist, to float 
in the sky like immense icebergs, solemn and lumi¬ 
nous in their remote cold austerity. 

“I hope you’re rested,” he said, after their first 
greeting. 

“Yes—I slept beautifully.” 

“That’s good. Then we can discuss everything 
quite temperately.” 

“Yes—you needn’t be afraid. I’m sorry I was 
so hateful yesterday. You were very patient, 
Esme.” 

“I’m awfully sorry, of course, that I can’t stay 
longer in London. But I simply must throw dust 
in all their eyes. So far, I really don’t believe 
they’ve the slightest suspicion of the truth.” 

Viola was determined not to let him see that he 
had struck a wrong and jarring note; she wanted 
desperately to atone for yesterday’s ill-humor. 

“Then we must make the most of this morning,” 
she told him, gayly. 

But her gayety was forced, and there was some¬ 
thing conscious and hard in the brilliance of her 
smile. 

He was, however, completely deceived. “Dar¬ 
ling, how well you understand,” he murmured. She 
was wonderful to-day in her assured beauty, her re¬ 
covered tenderness. There was a little interval of 
silence, and then he resumed: 

“I took these rooms ten days ago and left my 
portmanteau here. So we’ve another eleven days, 
and then I must get a special license. By the way, 
I must add three years to your age—do you mind?” 

“Will it be all right?” 

“We shan’t be imprisoned. That kind of offense 
is always treated leniently,” he told her. “I’m not 
scrupulous, you know, when I’ve set my heart on 
anything. ‘Let a man contend to his uttermost—’ ” 

“And when shall I see you again?” 


140 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Saturday, I hope. I mean to get off for the 
week-end. These next few days I’m down to play 
cricket at the Clethorpes’—they’ve got a match on.” 

“It wouldn’t be possible to give it up?’’ 

“No—I couldn't throw them over, having once 
promised. They’d have some difficulty in getting 
another man at the eleventh hour.” 

“To-day’s only Tuesday,” said Viola, ruefully. 

Four days—four dreary lonely days without a 
single glimpse of Esme. And she needed his pres¬ 
ence to keep her resolutions firm and steady. Left 
to herself she would certainly be—as she had been 
at the convent in Venice—a prey to her own scruples. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” There was a slight 
tinge of impatience in his voice. “By the way, you 
said something silly yesterday about going back to 
your brother’s house. Understand, Viola, there’s 
to be no nonsense of that kind. If you do go back 
you’ll never see me again. I shall understand that 
the old superstitions have triumphed.” 

The authoritative ring in his voice was not with¬ 
out its effect. She felt, too, the force of his words. 
Never to see Esme again, with his tormenting eyes, 
his whimsical smile, his hardness, his egoism, his 
tenderness. Never to hear his voice, his words of 
love. And then, on the other hand, to be freed once 
and forever from this consciousness of sin, tangled 
about with a maze of lying and deceit. It would be 
the negation of the kind of happiness she had known 
during the last few weeks, but it would spell peace, 
and there would be relief too in escape. Something 
in her face, some indication of hesitation, made him 
say sharply: 

“What do you intend to do? This sort of shilly¬ 
shallying is most unsettling. I won’t have you play¬ 
ing fast and loose with me. If you don't mean to 
marry me, you’d better say so. But if you do, I tell 




VIOLA HUDSON 


141 


you clearly you must leave all the arrangements to 
me. Y ou must just listen and obey.” 

Anxiety, a touch of anger, had made him turn 
white. Viola felt a strange little fear of him; her 
limbs trembled slightly. The sensation of fear was 
not wholly unpleasant, it was even a little bracing, 
and it gave to her love a new quality. 

And then her heart sank afresh. She longed for 
the quiet peace and solitude of the convent, where 
human love played so small a part, and charity so 
great a one. 

“Don’t be angry with me, Esme,” she murmured, 
clutching his arm and looking up into his face. But 
the hard expression did not soften, nor did the grim 
lines of the mouth relax. Oh, she could remember 
so well how he had always hated to be thwarted— 
how angry it had made him as a boy if one didn’t 
immediately accede to his plans! In his essential 
egoism he was wholly unable to apprehend the 
scruples and difficulties of another. 

“I really haven’t the slightest intention of going 
back to Percival,” she said, after a little pause. The 
silence was getting on her nerves, and she was aware 
that he was waiting for some assurance of fidelity 
and constancy on her part. 

“Somehow, I never feel sure of you,” he said, 
in a mollified tone. He bent his head and kissed 
her. “It would kill me to lose you,” he whispered. 

“Where shall we be married? Have you settled 
on a church?” she inquired. 

“Oh, yes—that’ll be all right,” said Esme, eva¬ 
sively. 

He counted upon her simplicity and ignorance 
as an essential factor in the success of his carefully 
devised scheme. But Percival was a lawyer, and 
he would have no betrayal to Percival of the con¬ 
templated wedding. Lawyers could be counted upon 
to put their dry legal fingers on the weak spot. 


142 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t let me see about 
a dispensation, Esme?— It would make me much 
happier. . . 

“Most certainly not, Viola darling. You must 
believe that I know best, and leave me to manage 
things in my own way. You promise not to play 
any tricks behind my back, don’t you? I must have 
your word of honor!” 

“Oh, my honor!” she said, with a sudden bitter¬ 
ness. 

“Why? What on earth do you mean?” 

“I—I shall have bartered it,” she answered, her 
eyes dark with gloom. 

“Nonsense!” said Esme. “You mustn’t be so 
morbid. Of course I understand it—you’ve been 
frightened with these bogies of purgatory and hell 
all your life, so you’re afraid of happiness, afraid 
of everything that is pleasant. Give me your prom¬ 
ise, Viola, your promise of secrecy—of faithful¬ 
ness.” 

“I promise,” she said, faintly 

Esme smiled. “I can trust you, I know. You’re 
different from other women.” 

“Yes. You’d never get Miss Clethorpe to do 
what I’m doing,” she said, bitterly. 

His smile vanished. The face was once more like 
a stone mask. 

“There’d be no need. We should be smothered, 
suffocated, with blessings. Besides, Miss Clethorpe 
is in a very different position from yourself. She’s 
always led a very guarded and sheltered life. Within 
certain defined limits she has complete liberty. But 
one would not dare suggest any adventurous or un¬ 
conventional course to her. I don’t think courage 
and independence of character number among her 
strong points.” 

“And are they among mine?” Her voice still 
held that veiled bitterness. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


M3 

“Yes. Of course with you they haven’t been al¬ 
lowed to flourish. You’ve been brought up in a 
medieval tradition that encourages scruples. Other¬ 
wise I believe you’d be one of the finest freest spirits 
in the whole world.” There was a subtle flattery 
in his tone. “It’s wonderful what you’ve done al¬ 
ready. I mean coming here like this—so many girls 
would have hesitated. I never knew anyone so little 
afraid. I suppose it is because you’re not afraid of 
anything or anyone in this world—only of what 
might possibly come afterward in another.” 

His praise soothed her, lulling that instinctive 
envy of the guarded and sheltered Miss Clethorpe, 
to whom no one would have dared to propose any 
straying from the path of strict convention. Esme 
respected that worldly code, and would not have in¬ 
vited her to sin against it. But for Viola’s religious 
code he had no respect at all. He simply ignored 
it, as trivial, childish and medieval, and wished her 
to show a like indifference and disdain. And yet it 
pleased her that he should think her courageous, 
fearless, independent, although she was aware that 
this character hardly fitted the woman who had been 
cruelly torn to pieces by religious scruples during 
her solitary weeks at the convent. But Esme knew 
nothing of those tormenting, unhappy, restless days. 
He did not in the least understand how the thought 
of “what might come afterward, in another world,” 
could render anyone timorous. 

“Miss Clethorpe will make a highly conventional 
marriage when the time comes,” he continued, “and 
the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Bishop of the 
diocese will probably perform the rite. There will 
be an unusual number of bridesmaids, a larger cake 
than anyone has ever had before, and the honey¬ 
moon will be spent in the most luxurious hotel on 
the Italian Lakes.” His eyes held a mocking light. 

“It must be lovely getting married like that,” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


144 

said Viola. She didn’t of course want the Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury, nor the probably very worthy 
Bishop of the diocese, for she had been brought up 
without any proper regard for these exalted beings. 
But she would have liked the bridesmaids, the cake, 
the joyous publicity of it all, the friends and rela¬ 
tions looking on with smiles and even tears of happy 
approval. No secrets, no lies, no clandestine meet¬ 
ings snatched, as it were, furtively and illicitly. 
Love was too beautiful to be stowed away in dark 
corners as if it were something shameful. It 
wasn’t shameful, for she and Esme had as much 
right to love each other, to get engaged and married, 
as any two people in the world. . . . 

“Whereas, we shall be married very early in the 
morning with possibly only the verger looking on. 
And then we shall go—where shall we go, Viola?” 

“To Venice?” she suggested. 

“I’m afraid funds will hardly run to such a long 
journey,” said Esme, “and then it would swallow up 
too much of our time. There’s a nice little place 
on the French coast where we shouldn’t be likely to 
run across anyone we know. And it’s not too far.” 

“Shall I go to Ardlesham when we’re married?” 
she asked. There was never any mention of Ardle¬ 
sham when he spoke of future plans, and the omis¬ 
sion struck her as significant. 

“Of course you will—directly I’ve smoothed the 
way for you. But we must be very prudent at first. 
It wouldn’t do to spring a surprise upon them at an 
unpropitious moment.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Viola. 

The future as he traced it seemed formless and 
nebulous. She longed to show him how rebellious 
she felt at this prospect of continued secrecy. 

“Oh, my darling, I do so depend upon you to 
help me to straighten things out! I shall need all 
your wise help, your discretion, your courage, your 



VIOLA HUDSON 


H5 

silence—” He made the appeal with something of 
entreaty, but it failed to move her. 

“I shall be completely in your hands, Esme, 
whether I’m wise or helpful or discreet or not. 
When I’m your wife I suppose it will be my duty 
to obey you—” She looked at him curiously. It 
wouldn’t be easy—that rule at once so authoritative, 
so self-seeking. It might even grind fine, and she 
would suffer under it. “All the same, I do wish 
you’d tell your mother.” 

“Tell my mother? But, darling, don’t you realize 
that would mean the end of everything? My 
mother’s simply set her heart on my marrying Miss 
Clethorpe—she’s more keen on it even than my 
father. Men don’t go in for match-making so much, 
as a rule. He’d like it and all that, but he’d never 
push me either way.” 

“I wonder if I shall ever see her. I’d like to see 
her—the girl you would have married if you’d never 
met me.” 

“Oh, she’s pretty enough,” he said, “like a dainty 
exquisite flower. And everything about her is won¬ 
derfully perfect. I don’t know much about women’s 
clothes, but hers always look absolutely new and 
fresh. She’s got the prettiest little feet and hands, 
and dark, almost black, hair and blue eyes.” 

“She’s everything that I’m not,” thought Viola, 
with a dull envy. She glanced almost with dismay 
at her simple gray muslin frock. It had cost so 
little and of course she had worn it many times, it 
couldn’t possibly look fresh and new. Her hands 
and feet were not small, for she was a tall woman, 
but they were slender and very shapely. Yet she 
saw herself less beautiful, less finished and dainty, 
than this rich girl who was her rival, and she felt 
dissatisfied and unhappy. 

She had often seen women with that soigne, pol- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


146 

ished, perfect look; it invariably signified wealth and 
leisure, an accomplished maid, and expensive frocks 
continually replenished. She knew exactly what 
Miss Clethorpe must look like. She could picture 
her quite accurately. And she was pretty into 
the bargain—she had everything to tempt and 
attract. . . . 

“All the same, she’s not worth the tip of your 
little finger,” continued Esme. “Of course, she’s 
a great catch. By the way, she’s a wonderful little 
horsewoman—hunts regularly in the season. Sir 
Timothy always sees that she’s perfectly mounted.” 

“Oh, you’ve ridden together?” 

“Sometimes—she isn’t allowed to ride alone. Sir 
Timothy adores her, and gives her every mortal 
thing she wants. But he doesn't like her to go out¬ 
side the Park alone—she always has a companion. 
Her sitting-room is full of the most delicious old fur¬ 
niture and prints and a quantity of books, and with 
her piano and flowers it’s the prettiest place you 
ever saw.” 

“What would she say to this room?” said Viola. 

Esme laughed. “I don’t suppose she’s ever seen 
anything remotely resembling it!” 

“Please don’t tell me anything else about her, 
Esme—I would rather not hear it. I shall begin 
to be frantically envious if you tell me any more.” 
Although her tone was light enough, he was aware 
that she was serious. But he wanted her to feel the 
beginnings of jealousy where Miss Clethorpe was 
concerned—just enough to convince her that she was 
enormously fortunate to have been chosen by him 
for his future wife despite the potent allure of these 
rival charms. 

“I like you to be jealous, Viola!” he said, gayly. 

“It hurts, though,” she acknowledged. 

“Oh, I can’t let you be hurt! And in a fortnight 


VIOLA HUDSON 


147 

you’ll be my wife—you mustn’t grudge me these 
last days of bachelor freedom,” he told her. 

“But you’ll be seeing her every day.” 

“Yes. Every single day.” 

“Don’t tease me, Esme. It’s the thought of your 
staying there that I hate so.” 

“It’s my second visit.” 

“Perhaps she thinks you want to marry her.” 

“If she does, it isn’t my fault.” 

“I feel you’re not quite fair to her. I wish you 
could tell her,” said Viola. 

He leaned back and rocked with laughter. 

“You do make the most extraordinary sugges¬ 
tions !” 

The morning wore away. It hadn’t been a peace¬ 
ful or a happy time, Viola reflected, wretchedly. 
When twelve o’clock struck, Esme sprang up almost 
with relief. 

“You’d better get ready and come out to lunch 
somewhere. The earlier we are, the less likely we 
shall be to meet anyone we know.” 

Always that caution—that prudence. And she 
felt so indifferent—she wouldn’t have minded meet¬ 
ing all her little world, including Esme’s parents. 
She wanted everyone to know that she was engaged 
—she would have welcomed discovery and revelation. 
She hadn’t done anything she was ashamed of, ex¬ 
cept perhaps coming to these rooms in this sly and 
secret way. She envied Isolde’s guarded sheltered 
life, surrounded by a careful and loving vigilance. 
Esme’s exaggerated prudence always aroused within 
her a mute resentment. He might have been— 
perhaps indeed he was—ashamed of her. 

They went to a restaurant in Regent Street. At 
such an early hour they were almost the only people 
there, except a group of Italians to whom a twelve 
o’clock luncheon was a necessity. Esme chose a 
quiet corner, and made Viola sit with her back to 



VIOLA HUDSON 


148 

the light. In public he always wished that her 
beauty was of a less conspicuous and arresting char¬ 
acter. People seeing such a face even if only cas¬ 
ually, would be little likely to forget it. And she 
was too tall not to be remarked. Once when she 
laughed at something he had said, he exclaimed 
abruptly: “For goodness’ sake don’t laugh so loud!” 

She felt then as if he had struck her in the face, 
and a little spot of crimson showed in each cheek. 
It was unreasonable, of course, to feel so hurt. Per- 
cival might have said that to her without even elicit¬ 
ing a sisterly retort. She supposed it was because 
she loved Esme so much, that she had bestowed upon 
him this facile ready power to w r ound her. Her 
laughter had a silvery rippling sound, and she had 
not realized its delicious individual quality. But 
Esme had realized it, and he hated that it should 
be heard. 

Viola ate very little. Esme made her drink some 
white wine. When luncheon was over, they had 
coffee and he smoked. No women smoked in public 
in the ’nineties, and even those who indulged in the 
habit in private, were apt to be stigmatized as 
“fast.” Esme therefore did not offer her a cigar¬ 
ette. 

“What time is your train, Esme?” 

“Four.” 

“It’ll be hot traveling.” 

“Yes, but delicious when one gets there. Ardle- 
sham is divine in this June weather. I shall prob¬ 
ably find my mother sitting under the cedars and 
having tea. You remember those cedars on the 
lawn, Viola?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Viola. The picture he had drawn 
was an alluring one. The cool spaciousness of 
Ardlesham made an almost terrible contrast to her 
present abode. She envied Esme going back to that 


VIOLA HUDSON 


149 

lovely home of his. It was so airless, so stifling, in 
London now. Oh, why couldn’t he take her back 
with him? It would be so easy—just a few words 
of explanation, of telling his parents that he loved 
his old playmate Viola Hudson, and couldn’t live 
without her, and therefore they must forgive him. 
Every day that passed would make it more difficult 
for him to utter that confession. 

“Does your mother ever speak of me?” she asked. 

“Not often—only once, I think.” 

It had been, as he well remembered, to tell him 
that once she had felt a little anxious about him 
and Viola—such a pretty nice-mannered girl but 
quite unsuitable—she was glad that he had realized 
it wouldn’t be wise to let that friendship go any 
further. All charmingly maternal . . . and no 
more had been said. The subject had been tacitly 
dropped, and thenceforward Isolde’s name was con¬ 
tinually on Lady Bethnell’s lips. Such a sweet crea¬ 
ture, and intelligent too. So charming, so gifted. . . 

“I’m afraid Lady Bethnell doesn’t care for me 
any more. And she did like me up to the time 
you came to Venice,” said Viola. 

She was thinking of that foggy January morning 
when Lady Bethnell had come to see her, and almost 
commanded her to get ready to travel abroad with 
her. There had been a genuine frank friendliness 
in her attitude, exhilarating, invigorating, chasing 
away fogs and cobwebs and everything that kept the 
light and purity of day from one. And now Lady 
Bethnell hadn’t even answered one of the letters 
Viola had written from the convent in Venice. 

“And she’ll like you again when you’re her 
daughter-in-law,” he assured her, with a gay con¬ 
fidence he was very far from experiencing. 

He had finished his cigarette and now he rose and 
moved toward the street door. She followed him. 
The air was heavy and stifling. Overhead the blue 


VIOLA HUDSON 


150 

sky was covered by a light haze that obscured its 
midsummer radiance. 

“Where are we going now, Esme?” 

“Back to your lodgings, my child.” 

“But it’s so early. Couldn’t we sit in the Park 
a little?” 

“No—there isn’t time. Besides, we might meet 
someone.” 

“Is Miss Clethorpe in London?” 

“How can I tell? But, as a matter of fact, they 
don’t intend to come up till July. She was in town 
all May and part of June—she’s tired of it. And 
Sir Timothy hates London.” 

“Oh! They’ve got a house here?” she asked. 

“Yes—in Berkeley Square.” 

They drove back to the little gray street. It looked 
more squalid and sordid than ever, Viola thought, 
and it wounded her afresh to think that Esme had 
considered it good enough for her. He must have 
known she would have detested its dinginess. 

“It’s no good your writing, in fact it’s better not,” 
he told her, when they were sitting in the little front 
room. “I’ll write to you if I possibly can. But 
there’ll be the difficulty of posting while I’m at 
Riversedge. And then there won’t be much time. 
We shall have some strenuous days what with the 
cricket, and dancing at night.” 

“Dancing?” she repeated. She was barely eighteen 
and her passion for dancing was still wholly unsatis¬ 
fied. She wondered what it would be like to dance 
with Esme. 

“Yes. Won’t it be topping?” 

She assented lukewarmly. Then: “Does Miss 
Clethorpe dance well?” 

“They say she’s the best dancer in the neighbor¬ 
hood. I suppose I shall soon be able to judge for 
myself.” 

Viola wanted to cling to his hand and cry out: 


VIOLA HUDSON 151 

“Don’t go—don’t go ... I can’t bear it!” But 
such a speech would inevitably annoy Esme. He 
would only regard her as a tiresome, hysterical little 
fool. She pictured Isolde, calm, indifferent, cool and 
alluring. Not really caring perhaps whether Esme 
intended to marry her or not. He was probably 
only one of several eligible aspirants. Not all her 
world! . . . 

“I must be going soon. I don’t want to miss this 
train, otherwise I shall be late for dinner. Sir Tim¬ 
othy’s nearly as bad as Dad about punctuality and 
that kind of thing.” 

“Oh, don’t go yet, Esme. There are so many 
things I still want to ask you about.” 

“What things, darling?” 

“Ought I to order . . . my wedding dress? It 
takes a little time, you know.” 

“Darling child, a wedding dress! Why of course 
not! You won’t want one. You must be married 
in your usual kit—something dark and quiet ...” 

“Oh,” said Viola, with obvious disappointment in 
her tone. 

No white satin or orange-blossoms or veil of old 
lace. She had one that had belonged to her mother. 
Something dark and quiet . . . 

He was in a hurry to go, obviously afraid of miss¬ 
ing his train. He had to go back to the club and pick 
up his things. She felt that he was anxious to de¬ 
part; it gave to their last few precious moments 
together a sense of hurry and rush. 

“Good-by, my darling. Keep as invisible as you 
can. Saturday will soon be here, and you must 
promise to be very good and patient.” 

“Yes, yes, Esme.” 

“I know it’s a bit trying here for you. But it’s 
necessary or I shouldn’t insist.” 

“Yes—I quite understand.” 

“Good-by,” said Esme. 


152 VIOLA HUDSON 

He put his arms round her and kissed her many 
times. 

“Darling, darling, I love you,” he said. 

“And I love you, dear Esme,” she whispered. 

It struck her afterward that their one really happy 
moment together was that when they had kissed each 
other good-by. They seemed to have spent so much 
of their short time together in acrimonious discus¬ 
sions that just did not amount to actual quarreling. 
It was entirely her own fault, she told herself re¬ 
proachfully. All her questions had been inspired by 
a little tingling jealousy and suspicion. 


CHAPTER XIV 

A FTER Esme had gone, Viola felt unhappy, 
conscience-stricken, restless. She kept saying 
to herself: “You’ve no right to marry him without 
a dispensation. You deserve to be punished. You 
will be punished. You know,” with an odd echo of 
Miss Malleson’s ominous cliche, “the consequences 
of disobedience.” It wasn’t, as she fully realized, a 
trivial thing to disobey one of the Church’s laws. 

Esme had foreseen that, left to herself, she would 
once more become the prey of these scruples. That 
was why he had urged silence and patience and pru¬ 
dence. He wanted to make himself quite safe, to 
hedge himself about with all kinds of protective 
measures. She must help him to carry out the secret 
plan he had so coldly and deliberately formed. But 
it was hateful to be here alone in these dismal sur¬ 
roundings and picture him returning to Ardlesham, 
to enjoy all the easy luxury of a great wealthy house. 
She thought with envy of Ardlesham, and of its cool 
green garden, its dim woods, the scent of flowers, the 
tall pure lilies, heavily fragrant, the mists of blue 


VIOLA HUDSON 


153 

delphiniums, the stately herbaceous borders, with 
the gnarled apple-trees forming a gray background 
for all that wonderful glory of color. The murmurs 
of the country in midsummer weather. . . . She felt 
an aching desire to be there. And then this evening 
Esme would drive over to Riversedge and dine and 
dance with Isolde Clethorpe. That was the worst 
thought of all. However much he might love her, 
there were certain ways in which she must necessarily 
compare unfavorably with Isolde. 

After breakfast the next morning, Viola went in 
an omnibus cityward. Those were the days of horse 
omnibuses, a leisurely, unhurried means of transit, 
yet infinitely preferable to the choking sulphurous 
alternative adventure offered by the Underground. 
Viola used to think that all the accumulated fogs and 
smoke of London had settled in those baleful tun¬ 
nels, filling them eternally with suffocating, noxious 
fumes. One emerged therefrom with nose and eyes 
saturated with black malodorous air, and face and 
garments smudged with grime. 

Confident that she would meet no one whom she 
knew, she climbed to the top, enjoying the freshness 
of the morning air, and the touch of a light cool 
wind. When the ’bus stopped at Aldgate, she de¬ 
scended, crossed the road, and walked down the 
Minories with its historical Catholic associations. 
There was a church close by, as she knew—the 
Church of the English Martyrs on Tower Hill. No 
one would be likely to recognize her; she had only 
been there once before, and that was to a wedding. 
She had always felt afraid, since her return, to go 
into one of the big West End churches, for fear of 
meeting someone she knew. 

She entered the church and knelt down before the 
beautiful Altar of Our Lady of Grace, gleaming like 
a white jewel in its somber setting of gray gloom. 
She remembered it from her former visit when it had 


VIOLA HUDSON 


154 

impressed her with its rare beauty. Within, it was 
very silent, and only a faint rumble of the City traffic 
reached her ears, like a far-off sustained murmur of 
sound, muffled, mysterious. 

Directly she knelt down, a strange restlessness 
seized her. Why had she come? It was useless to 
come and pray when one had deliberately consented 
to a course of action that was in itself sinful. There 
was no room for sophistry here, no compromise, no 
easy salving of conscience with half-truths. A thing 
was right or it was quite clearly wrong. You couldn’t 
have it, so to speak, both ways. The Church’s laws 
offered no relaxation for a special case. You couldn’t 
even plead ignorance, since information was easily 
obtainable. But you couldn’t offend, deliberately 
and maliciously, and still claim the divine consola¬ 
tions of the Church. Those were for the penitent, 
the contrite sinner; for the prodigal who had cast 
away the husks and went meekly with down-bent 
head, and hand on heart, saying, “Father, I have 
sinned against heaven and before Thee ...” 

The tears gushed to her eyes. Paradoxically she 
had never thought so much about her religion, real¬ 
ized its power so completely, as she had done during 
these last weeks of deliberately planned rebellion. 
It was useless now to fall back upon the old formula: 
“God w T on’t punish me for loving Esme.” She 
thought of the Two Standards, and knew that she 
intended to cross the stream and join that standard 
which was in direct opposition to that of Christ. 

Glimpses of Esme passed chaotically before her 
eyes. His hard, clean-cut, handsome face, the well- 
brushed crinkly hair, the green eyes, the long grace¬ 
ful limbs. She could hear his voice, now divinely 
tender, now sharply authoritative, producing within 
her a little thrill of fear. The wedding dress . . . 
something dark and quiet . . . Don’t laugh so loud, 
for goodness’ sake . . . She shivered with resent- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


155 

ment even in retrospect. When he disagreed with 
her, there was such cold scorn in his voice. 

He was too certain of her love. If he had been 
less certain he would have behaved more chival¬ 
rously. Did men always despise a woman who con¬ 
sented to marry them clandestinely? 

And, then, Esme set her religion aside almost as 
if it didn't exist or, at best, was merely something 
with which to frighten children. He didn’t realize 
its awful power—the way it held you. . . . 

She rose and wandered round the church, pausing 
before each altar. Presently she met a priest coming 
from the sacristy. In his hand he held a bag and 
he was walking quickly, as if bent on some urgent 
errand. But he stopped and asked her if she wished 
to go to confession. 

“No . . . no, thank you,” stammered Viola. 

He bowed and passed on toward the door. Per¬ 
haps he had been afraid that she might ask for a 
priest too late, when none was available. These 
priests in large poor missions were often highly 
overworked men, with scant leisure. But his ques¬ 
tion had startled her, and it was only after he had 
disappeared that she realized she had, for the second 
time, rejected a proffered opportunity. 

. . . Almighty God did not desire the death of a 
sinner; time after time He offered the means by 
which one might return to Him, receive His pardon 
and regain His friendship. He didn’t leave you 
quite alone. He wanted you. But His laws were 
very stern, implacable, unchangeable even in a world 
of change. You had the necessary strength to obey 
them if you chose, and you had the awful power to 
reject them if it pleased you. If she had spoken of 
these things to Esme, he would have thrown his head 
back and rocked with laughter. We were here, in 
this world, he would say, to be happy, to enjoy our¬ 
selves. We followed the instincts that God had 



ij6 


VIOLA HUDSON 


given us—if there was a God. Esme had less re¬ 
spect for the Catholic Church than anyone she had 
ever met. 

But it was horrible, nevertheless—this sense of 
having had a door opened to you, help offered to 
you, and of having turned away in dumb but per¬ 
sistent refusal. Yet, if she had gone to confession 
now, there would have been an end of her present 
solitary life, of the secret marriage. She would have 
been obliged, in order to make a valid confession, to 
reveal the step she was about to take. 

She wandered out into the little gray East End 
street. But it wasn’t nearly so squalid as the street 
where she was living now. These prim little houses 
dated from the days of Queen Anne, and had once 
formed part of quite a fashionable quarter when the 
Court sojourned annually at the Tower and jour¬ 
neyed by river on splendid, decorated barges. The 
air, too, blew freshly here, as if to remind one of the 
nearness of the Thames. Viola passed a narrow 
alley, darkened and overshadowed by high walls that 
rose blankly on each side of it. The name was writ¬ 
ten up—Magdalen Passage. To her it looked a 
sinister spot, as if crimes might easily be committed 
there under cover of night. A cat crept stealthily 
past her, and vanished over the wall, uttering its 
baleful cry. 

She walked on to Aldgate, and there waited for 
the omnibus that was to take her back to the Marble 
Arch. But when she reached Holborn she descended 
and walked, threading her way cautiously through 
the streets that lay behind Oxford Street. She was 
afraid of meeting Cecily, who was fond of shopping 
in those parts. Esme had imbued her with his own 
fierce dread of discovery. If Cecily saw her alone 
like this in London when she was supposed by every¬ 
one to be still in Venice, she would certainly never 
rest until she had learned the whole truth. And she 


VIOLA HUDSON 


157 

would be suspicious, and shocked. She wouldn’t 
think it respectable for Viola to be living alone in 
London lodgings. She would take it for granted 
that something was quite seriously amiss. Viola 
w T ould be in disgrace, and Cecily would write tri¬ 
umphantly to George and Matthew and tell them 
how wicked she was and how deceitful. Probably 
she would end by saying that Catholics were always 
deceitful—you could never trust them! To believe 
that was part of Cecily’s Protestant code. And yet 
Viola had heard Cecily lie quite glibly to Percival 
more than once, generally about the children. But 
you could lie and no one said rude things about your 
religion as long as you were a Protestant . . . 

Viola felt almost thankful to find herself back, 
safe and undiscovered, in her dingy lodgings. She 
had few books with her and no work to do, and the 
time hung heavily. To-morrow she would go out 
early and make some purchases and begin to fashion 
a few things for her trousseau. It seemed so poor 
to have no trousseau at all. And her clothes were 
shamefully shabby with the exception of one or two 
frocks, almost too thin to wear in England, that 
Lady Bethnell had given her. Viola was a good 
needlewoman; she had learnt to sew both under 
Miss Malleson’s aegis and also when she was at 
school, but she was often too lazy to work. When 
she was married she supposed she would have a maid 
who would do everything for her. But in the mean¬ 
time it would help her to pass the time if she made 
some necessaries for her trousseau. 

The next afternoon brought a letter from Esme, 
quite short and evidently written in a great hurry. 
He had made fifty runs for the Riversedge side and 
taken four wickets for only sixteen runs, and Sir 
Timothy was delighted and said he had won the 
match for them. Evidently he was in high favor. 
They had danced the first night up till nearly two—a 


VIOLA HUDSON 


15 8 

bad preparation for cricket. Still, he hadn’t felt 
a bit tired, everyone was so cheery and full of spirits, 
and he was enormously fit. He was longing for 
Saturday to come. And he loved his beautiful, 
darling Viola. . . . 

The letter cheered her. She would have liked to 
answer it, but Esme had forbidden her to write. He 
wouldn’t run any risks. He protected himself at all 
points. She wondered how many times he had 
danced with Isolde. Whether the girl had fallen in 
love with him—he was, alas, so essentially lovable! 
Perhaps, too, he had made her believe that he ad¬ 
mired her immensely. And Sir Timothy and the 
Bethnells looking on perhaps, watching them with 
quiet satisfaction, hoping that the young people 
would soon understand each other . . . 

She took up her work again, and sewed all through 
the stifling June afternoon, till her head and eyes 
ached frantically under the strain. Sewing only 
stimulated the terrible activity of her thoughts. She 
was back in Venice, on the lagoon, at night with 
Esme. Then at the convent, listening with outward 
calm and inward agitation to Mother Gabrielle’s 
wise, kind phrases. And then yesterday, in the great 
dim East End church, murky and blackened with 
fumes and smoke, but possessing that wonderful pale 
jewel, the Altar of Our Lady of Grace. Our Lady 
of Grace, pray for me . . . Hail Mary, full of 
Grace . . . 

Viola had always loved the Mother of Our Lord. 
When she was little she had taken all her childish 
troubles to her, her petty acts of disobedience, the 
pain of subsequent punishment when body and soul 
seemed alike to be smarting, her rare joys that had 
even then always been associated with Esme. She 
could remember those simple prayers. “Do please 
pray that it may be fine to-morrow, because I’m 
asked to tea at Ardlesham Park, and Aunt Hope 


VIOLA HUDSON 


159 

says I’m not to go if it’s wet.” And then later: “Oh, 
thank you, thank you for the lovely afternoon. I did 
try to be good. . . .” She had felt always that the 
Madonna was kinder than Aunt Hope, and loved 
her more, and understood her better. She would 
have been patient, and perhaps wouldn’t have pun¬ 
ished little childish offenses with that relentless 
severity. . . . 

And now—of this Viola felt quite certain—the 
dear Madonna was watching her. Praying perhaps 
that she might not succumb to temptation. She 
wanted Viola to be good. It wounded her most 
sorrowful Heart to see people bent upon offending 
and displeasing Her Beloved Son. “Our Lady of 
Grace . . . pray for me ...” Viola repeated the 
words almost with passion. 

The world was a cruel tangle. The knowledge of 
her own gift of free-will appalled her. And the pre¬ 
cise nature of the Church’s teaching left one in no 
doubt as to what was right and what was wrong. It 
was all clear and definite and simple. And you were 
quite free to adopt which course you chose. You 
couldn’t say, though, if you were a Catholic, that you 
had been coerced, overpersuaded, or were the victim 
of undue influence. Always you were left with your 
wonderful, dreadful gift of free-will . . . 

People would, of course, say that she had been 
overruled by Esme Craye, a man so much older, so 
much more experienced than herself. But she would 
always know that the ultimate decision had rested 
with herself, and that she had had, moreover, 
abundant spiritual help all through that time of trial 
and temptation. Help that she had, alas, deliber¬ 
ately rejected . . . 

There were moments when the alternative pre¬ 
sented considerable attraction, and at such times she 
would picture herself going back to her brother’s 
house, telling him all that had passed, asking his 


i6o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


legal advice and opinion. Then she would write and 
tell Esme that she had “given the show away.” Per- 
cival would certainly call her a little fool for her 
pains, and tell her that if she married a man of 
Esme’s position she couldn’t expect to make terms. 
She would be jolly lucky to catch him, and ought to 
thank her stars for her good fortune. And Percival 
would not be likely to leave it at that, he would 
probably write to Lord Bethnell about the question 
of settlements. 

That would make Esme hate her. No, she had 
gone too far. She had weighed the pros and cons, 
made her decision, given her solemn promise. She 
couldn’t be a coward now. And she loved Esme— 
that was the real reason of her decision. Loved him 
so much that she couldn’t send him out of her life 
forever. She loved him, and she intended to be his 
wife, come what might. 

“We shall be perfectly happy,” she said, aloud. 
“Perfectly happy.” 

It was only just now that his perpetual insistence 
upon the necessity of prudence and secrecy annoyed 
and irritated her. But when he had announced their 
marriage, that cloud would automatically melt. And 
if she were careful and tactful, surely in time he 
would come to think much better of her religion; 
he would see it was an integral part of her life; he 
would be kind and lenient about it. And then per¬ 
haps later on he would learn to love it, too. 

She returned to her sewing with renewed assiduity. 
And the day after to-morrow Esme would come. 

CHAPTER XV 

T HE days dragged past wearily. Early on the 
Saturday morning a telegram came, to say 
Esme could not get away till Monday. Two more 
days . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


161 


June had yielded to July. London was wrapped 
in a suffocating heat, sultry, overcast, airless. When 
Viola thought of the valley of Ardlesham—surely 
one of the most beautiful of Hampshire valleys— 
with the woods and downs spreading above and 
beyond it, a fierce nostalgia seized her. She was 
wretched in London; the close confinement to those 
stuffy lodgings was beginning to affect her health. 
No wonder Esme didn’t care to leave the country 
now. Perhaps he was still at Riversedge. Perhaps 
he was beginning genuinely to care for Isolde, realiz¬ 
ing that he had made a mistake. A little cold shiver 
of jealousy swept her from head to foot. Per¬ 
haps . . . after all . . . she wasn’t to be allowed 
to achieve her threatened act of rebellion. She was 
going to be forcibly prevented. It did sometimes 
happen that you were arrested on the very threshold. 
But she had gone too far—she couldn’t bear it now. 
If she couldn’t be Esme’s wife, she would far rather 
die than live. He was everything to her—every¬ 
thing. . . . 

She was pale and wan, with deep purple rims 
under her eyes, by the time Esme did appear at a 
fairly early hour on Monday morning. How trim 
and soigne he looked, fresh, vigorous and eminently 
self-satisfied. Certainly the visit to Riversedge must 
have been a complete success. 

Viola rose from her seat near the window and 
came toward him, half eagerly, half timorously. 

“Darling, how glum you look! Has anything 
happened?” said Esme, with just a shade of irrita¬ 
tion in his voice. 

“You would be glum if you’d been alone in this 
heat for six whole days,” replied Viola, in spirited 
fashion. But her smile reassured him. It was good 
to see him again. 

“I expect I should,” he agreed; “still, you know 
I simply couldn’t help myself, Viola.” 



162 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Were you at Riversedge all the time?” 

“Yes. I left there this morning. I sent a message 
over to Ardlesham to say I was unexpectedly called 
to London.” 

“Did you enjoy it very much?” 

“Very much indeed. It’s a ripping place, and 
they’d some awfully nice people staying there. By 
the way, I’ve got a rival—Lord Herringham. 
Twenty-five and his own father—lucky chap! Pots 
of money and making the running all the way.” 

“Oh, will they be married?” asked Viola, a trifle 
breathlessly 

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Esme. He had 
been very slightly jealous of Herringham. It was 
one thing to tell yourself that you didn’t want to 
marry a girl, and quite another to see her suddenly 
engaged in bestowing her pretty favors elsewhere. 

“Does Sir Timothy approve?” 

“He’d be a fool not to prefer an old family to a 
new one,” said Esme, who had not been left at all 
in doubt upon the subject. But Sir Timothy might 
have discerned signs of delay and philandering in 
Esme, a want perhaps of serious purpose. He was 
quite capable of sending for an eminently eligible 
rival. 

“Do you think Miss Clethorpe prefers Lord Her¬ 
ringham?” inquired Viola. 

“I didn’t ask her,” said Esme, curtly. “Anyhow, 
they’re not engaged yet, and I was invited to stay 
on. But I knew your patience was limited, and I 
thought it was safer to come up and see you.” 

This speech gave her the impression that he had 
reluctantly torn himself away from Riversedge. 
Was it because by so doing he had left his rival 
alone in the field? She put the thought from her. 
He ought not to care in the least if Isolde married 
Lord Herringham or not. 

“We must be married very soon, Viola; there are 


VIOLA HUDSON 163 

rumors of wars—there always are, you know—on 
the frontier, and I may be called back before my 
leave is up.” 

“Do you mean you might have to go soon?” 

“Yes,” said Esme. “And anyhow I’m due to start 
early in September.” 

India in September. She exclaimed: “Oh, how 
lovely, Esme!” 

He gave her a perplexed look. “Well, I thought 
you might take it badly,” he said. “Women always 
spring surprises on one.” 

“But, Esme, don’t you realize? I’m simply long¬ 
ing to go out to India! It’ll be the loveliest adven¬ 
ture.” Her eyes shone. 

“Well, unless I’ve told my parents before then, 
I can’t possibly take you,” he said, slowly. 

“Not take me? But Esme—you’ve promised to 
tell them. And of course I must come with you. 
When I’m your wife I shall go everywhere with you, 
and I’ve always longed to travel.” 

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” said Esme, 
steadily, looking straight in front of him. “And at 
present I think it’s extremely doubtful whether I 
shall tell them beforehand.” 

Although he did not meet her eyes, his face was 
hard and unflinching. 

“Esme!” she cried in anguish. He heard the 
sound of a quick sob. Rising hastily, he went across 
to her and put his arm round her. 

“But if there’s war, darling, it would be impos¬ 
sible. I couldn’t take you up to the frontier! And 
what would you do alone in India?” 

“I suppose I should do what other women do when 
their husbands are away,” she answered. 

“I’d rather think of you as safely in England,” he 
said, kissing her. She leaned against him. She 
couldn’t think of that future without him—spent as 
his unacknowledged wife. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


164 

“Don’t you really feel as if you could face it, 
darling?” 

She felt that he was offering her her freedom. 
But the gift was too bitter. Oh, she could bear any¬ 
thing if she only had his love! She said briefly: “I 
can face everything.” 

“That’s my own brave darling,” he whispered. 

“But, Esme—if you went away for a very long 
time—” 

“Well, it would certainly be pretty rotten for us 
both,” he said. 

She wondered where she would live, if he left her 
alone in England. Whether he would give her leave 
to tell Percival and Cecily of her marriage. But she 
simply could not let her thoughts dwell upon such a 
monstrous hypothesis. When she was his wife she 
w r ould insist upon accompanying him everywhere. 
She would refuse to be thrust out of sight. She 
would make him tell his parents. And if he refused 
she would herself tell Lady Bethnell. 

“How long shall you be in London this time, 
Esme?” she asked. 

“Only till to-morrow morning. They’ll be begin¬ 
ning to get restless at Ardlesham if I stay away any 
longer.” 

Her heart sank. She was aware that in all things 
he only consulted his own pleasure and convenience, 
and thus she knew he was returning home because he 
preferred to be there. He would leave her alone 
without a thought for her misery, her solitude. 

“Isn’t it awful,” she said smiling, though with a 
suspicion of a quiver in her voice, “the way we 
quarrel and disagree all the very short time we are 
together? Esme—I believe Em getting bad-tem¬ 
pered—I used never to be like this. You mustn’t 
think you’re marrying a cross woman—I’m not really 
cross—I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” 

“Oh, well, it’s a rotten sort of engagement for 


VIOLA HUDSON 


165 

you, and I don’t wonder you’re fed up with being 
alone. But, Viola darling, you must believe that if it 
were only possible I’d take you down to Ardlesham 
this very day and make a clean breast of the whole 
affair. But it would be a most fatal mistake. They’d 
never forgive me. They—they are ambitious for 
me. Can't you see that it’s hard for me too, because 
I feel it’s better for me to come here as little as 
possible? And I want to be with you—half the time 
I'm simply eating my heart out!” 

He kissed and comforted her, and under the spell 
of his words Viola grew very calm and quiet. She 
did not speak, but leaned her head against his shoul¬ 
der and shut her eyes, submitting to his caresses with 
a sort of abandonment. He really did love her, and 
she had been foolish to doubt it. But it was the 
being shut out like this from his happy home life, 
although she had a greater right to be there than any 
woman in the world, that hurt her so much. 

Across the silence she could almost hear Miss 
Malleson’s voice saying: Viola knows the conse¬ 
quences of disobedience . . . She rebelled against 
the hard lesson. What a shame to bring up quite 
little children in that kind of atmosphere of threaten¬ 
ing and punishment and perpetual fear! So bad for 
them—it haunted them afterward, so that they 
hardly dared be happy. Even now the uncomfort¬ 
able sensation produced by those words was capable 
of clouding her wonderful happiness. She clung 
suddenly to Esme’s hands. 

“Oh, Esme—I’ve nobody but you—nothing but 
you. Please always be kind to me . . . ” 

“Why, of course, dear child,” he said, in some 

surprise. 

They spent all day together, going to little- 
frequented restaurants for their meals. When eve¬ 
ning came Esme took a hansom and they diove out 


i66 


VIOLA HUDSON 


to Roehampton, Viola so deeply veiled that even 
Cecily could not possibly have recognized her. The 
fresh air did her good, bracing her nerves. With 
Esme beside her she wasn’t nearly so much afraid of 
the future. And it would be quite easy to refuse 
to be left behind when he went to India. She would 
have her own money when she was married, and she 
could pay her passage out. Esme didn’t realize yet 
what a determined, self-willed woman she was . . . 

She saw little of him in the days that followed. 
He seldom stayed in town for even one night, but 
came up occasionally for the day, and then he never 
failed to spend an hour or two with her, taking her 
out to lunch and discussing plans for the wedding. 
The day "was fixed, and everything, he assured her, 
was now in order. So great was his influence, that 
Viola had almost forgotten her scruples; and if they 
thrust themselves forward, as they had a habit of 
doing at odd moments, she flicked them resolutely 
away. The only thing in the world that mattered 
was that she should be Esme’s wife. She loved him 
more and more, and every time he came it seemed to 
her that he too loved her with an increased passion. 

But sometimes she looked back at the old standard 
she had deserted, with a wistful, sorrowful look in 
her eyes. She meant to go back—oh, so humbly, so 
penitently, afterward. She wasn’t a permanent 
apostate; it was a temporary faithlessness for 
which she fully meant hereafter to atone. But she 
never really deceived herself with these resolutions. 
Why, she might be stricken down with sudden illness 
or death before she had time to be sorry—to atone! 
One must live each day, so Miss Malleson had told 
her, as if in preparation for death. One must be 
eternally ready because, Ye know not the day nor the 
hoar . . . 

It seemed like a dream when early one July morn- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


167 

ing Esme came to fetch her. It was not quite eight 
o’clock, and the summer day had dawned bleak and 
chill, with a cold rain falling. Viola was quite ready; 
she knew how much he disliked to be kept waiting. 
She had risen early, had dressed herself with great 
care in a new dark brown coat and skirt—the most 
unbridal-like array imaginable. The skirt was full 
and fell in folds about her feet, hiding her shoes. 
She wore a plain brown straw hat trimmed with 
blue flowers. 

She was waiting in the sitting-room when Esme 
came in; her almost untouched breakfast lying near 
her on the table. He was very pale, and his eyes 
were extraordinarily bright; there was a queer reso¬ 
lute expression about his mouth. She thought that 
he looked like a man about to embark upon a 
perilous, hazardous adventure. 

“Have you got any tea there, Viola?’’ he asked. 
“I should like a cup. Ugh—what a cold morning!” 
He was beginning to dislike the cold with all the 
fierce unreasoning antipathy of the Anglo-Indian. 

She gave him a cup of tea. “I’m afraid it isn’t 
very hot. Shall I ring for some more?” 

“No—there isn’t time. This will do perfectly.” 
He drank it quickly, and then said: “Well, we must 
be off, I suppose. I’ve got a cab waiting. By the 
way, we’re not going to be married in a church but 
in a private chapel.” 

“Will that be all the same?” asked Viola. 

“Exactly the same. I’ve got a special license.” 

“What—what made you change, Esme?” 

“Safer,” he answered, laconically. 

Viola said confidently: “No one can separate us 
now. I don’t care who knows!” 

Esme gave her a long, close, strange look. He 
saw the perfect line of her profile, the long dark 
brows, the dark eyes, the thick close-growing hair. 
How beautiful she looked, notwithstanding that ugly 


168 


VIOLA HUDSON 


somber dress she was wearing. But she didn’t look 
in the least like a bride. Her loveliness, however, 
seemed to triumph over the essential gloom of the 
day, its grayness and darkness. 

The cab stopped at last before a tall brick house 
in what seemed to Viola a totally unfamiliar square. 
She did not ask any questions because she felt per¬ 
fectly safe with Esme. To doubt him would have 
brought the house of cards falling about her ears. 
She slipped her hand in his arm and they descended 
from the cab. 

Esme gave the man his fare, and then rang the 
bell. The door was immediately opened by a young 
man. 

“Is Mr. Smith here?” inquired Esme. 

“Yes, sir. Just come, sir.” 

They climbed a flight of stairs, and at the top 
found themselves on a wide, square landing with 
corridors branching off in three directions. The 
place was very silent and deserted, as if the house 
were uninhabited. Esme led the way down a passage 
to the right and entered a room at the far end. It 
was dimly lit with gas-burners. At the far end there 
was a raised table covered with a white cloth and 
with a couple of candlesticks upon it. 

Viola had seen few churches other than Catholic 
ones in her life, and she had never before been into 
a private chapel belonging to Protestants. It was 
certainly very bare, but then she imagined such 
places were always bare. She could remember going 
as a child to see the private chapel of a great Catholic 
house, and it had seemed to her more richly deco¬ 
rated, more full of wonderful stained-glass, pictures, 
and sculpture than any church she had seen in 
England. The altar had been of sumptuous white 
marble, inlaid with the rare golden marble that is so 
scarce and costly. The memory of it flashed before 
her mind now as she entered this bare, ill-appointed 


VIOLA HUDSON 169 

room. But in her ignorance she accepted it without 
questioning. 

There was no furniture in the room except that 
table covered with the white cloth, and some chairs 
and hassocks. She was glad that there was no cruci¬ 
fix—the very sight of one, she felt, would have made 
her long to rush away. Even as a child that tortured, 
bleeding Figure of Christ, nailed to the hard wood, 
had never failed to impress her profoundly, to check 
her in petty acts of disobedience and rebellion. She 
could remember running to kiss the Feet of the one 
in her room at Ardlesham, asking pardon, praying 
for help. No—to see one now, while she was carry¬ 
ing out the first overt and serious act of rebellion of 
her life, would have been too sharp a trial. 

From another room a young man appeared wear¬ 
ing a surplice. The youth who had opened the door 
had vanished. They were alone. Esme made her 
move toward the table. They stood there side by 
side. The clergyman opened a book and began to 
read in a rapid, monotonous voice. He mumbled 
so much that not a single word reached Viola’s ears. 
“I, Esme, take thee, Viola, for my wedded wife . . .” 

“I, Viola, take thee, Esme, for my wedded hus¬ 
band ...” 

In sickness and in health . . . till death us do 

part . . . 

She glanced at Esme. With his flushed cheeks, his 
brilliant eyes, he looked like a man under the influ¬ 
ence of a powerful and exciting drug. 

“Sign here, if you please, Mrs. Craye. No—your 
own name ... In full, please.” 

Viola wrote her name in the place indicated, Viola 
Mary Hudson. But her hand shook so much that 
the words were trembling and illegible. Esme had 
already signed his name—she read it almost me¬ 
chanically: Esme Vivian Mansfield Craye. Mans- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


170 

field . . . that was why perhaps he had made her 
call herself by that name. She had wondered some¬ 
times why he had chosen it. 

He turned then and took her in his arms. 

“Viola—beloved—wife . . .” she heard him 
whisper. 

She was very passive, but she felt almost faint 
with emotion. Mr. Smith had vanished, and they 
were quite alone. She could hardly believe that this 
brief little ceremony which had just taken place 
could really have joined her life to Esme’s forever, 
could have made them irrevocably husband and wife. 
Then a thrill of joy passed through her. Yes, she 
was Esme’s wife now. Nothing could part them, 
nothing but sin or death. She was eternally his. 
Marriage was indissoluble. Whom God hath 
joined . . . She moved involuntarily away from 
him and he felt that she shuddered from head to 
foot. Had God joined them, or had she mocked 
Him with this ceremony that was forbidden by the 
law's of her Church? 

The lack of formalities had puzzled her a little, 
but in her ignorance they did not trouble her. She 
belonged utterly to Esme now. And some day— 
very soon—she would go and make peace with her 
Church . . . The consciousness of sin pressed 

heavily upon her. It seemed as if she had stretched 
out her hand to seize and hold an illicit treasure. 

“I suppose I’m very happy,” she thought, “but it 
all seems so strange. So untrue. I wish Percival 
could have been there.” 

“You must come now, Viola,” Esme gently re¬ 
minded her. 

She took his arm and together they left the room. 
As in a dream she passed along the thickly carpeted 
passage with its dull red hangings that looked like 
somber flames. Then down the long staircase and 


VIOLA HUDSON i 7 i 

j^ e . s ^ ree t. Rain was still falling, and a 
bleak cold wind blew in their faces. 

“Where are we going?” 

“ T ° fft ch y° ur ^ggage. I suppose it’s all ready? 
We shall just have time to catch the train.” 

. Tes everything’s ready. And where are we 
going, Esme?” 

“To France,” he answered, “to that place on the 
coast I told you about.” Idle hailed a passing cab 
and they drove back to Viola’s lodgings. 


CHAPTER XVI 

A T THE station, which was crowded in anticipa¬ 
tion of the departure of the boat-train, Esme 
was attentive but preoccupied. He had taken Viola 
to her seat—a corner one in a first-class carriage— 
and had left her on some pretext of looking after the 
luggage. Viola was glancing at the papers he had 
bought, when he suddenly put his head in at the 
window, and handed her a ticket and some French 
money. 

“Look here, darling, you don’t mind traveling 
down alone, do you? I’ve met several people I 
know, and it wouldn’t do for them to see us together. 
It’s frightfully important, in fact, that we shouldn’t 
be seen. When you get to Boulogne drive straight 
to the Hotel de Londres and I’ll come on as soon as 
I possibly can.” 

Viola started to her feet. “No—no; Esme—!” 
she exclaimed, excitedly. “I won’t go at all unless 
you come with me. What does it matter if people 
see us now? We are married—” 

The suggestion had struck her as an almost de¬ 
grading one. Why should Esme be ashamed of her? 
She was his wife. She refused to make such an 


VIOLA HUDSON 


172 

ignominious journey, traveling in another carriage 
while he joined his friends elsewhere. Her pride 
revolted against the thought of beifig left thus alone. 
She attempted to descend, but he gently pushed her 
backward. 

“For Heaven’s sake, darling, don’t make a scene. 
I shall be there very soon after you. I’ve taken our 
rooms in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Mansfield. It’s 
nonsense to make such a fuss!’’ 

His voice was hard and authoritative. The push, 
though a gentle one, had not been without decision. 
And she had promised to obey him. It would be 
wrong surely to disobey him now, to refuse his very 
first request. 

“Do as you’re told and don’t be a little fool,” he 
said, sternly. 

Viola sank back on the seat. He had seldom 
spoken to her in that tone before; it reminded her 
of the day when he had sharply requested her not to 
laugh so loud in the restaurant, and the effect was 
exactly as if he had struck her in the face. She felt 
both shamed and pained. Esme gave her one quick 
glance as if to ascertain that she now intended to 
obey without further discussion, then he turned away 
and walked hurriedly down the platform. 

Viola was alone. She was the only passenger in 
that compartment. She went to the other side of it, 
away from the platform, and wiped the indignant 
tears from her eyes. And then for the first time a 
queer little misgiving seized her. It was strength¬ 
ened by the cumulative happenings of that day, 
beginning with the odd, strange little marriage cere¬ 
mony in the so-called private chapel of an unknown 
house in that unfamiliar square. The bare room, the 
odd look of the young man who had performed 
the brief ceremony, and then this suddenly disclosed 
but obviously premeditated plan of Esme’s that she 
should travel across to France alone while he jour- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


173 

neyed independently by the same train and boat. He 
had done this because of his fear of discovery, but 
there now seemed to her something actually sinister 
in his ambiguous, determined secrecy. No motive 
seemed quite powerful enough to account for it. 
These thoughts, crowding into her mind like a flock 
of fierce wild birds, beating against her brain, gave 
Viola a great longing to get out of the train and 
drive back to her brother’s house. She knew now 
that she actually mistrusted Esme, and the knowl¬ 
edge was a hateful one, because only an hour or two 
ago she had put her life into his hands. But the 
safety and security, the dull, comfortable monotony 
of her brother’s house, held for her then an invin¬ 
cible attraction. To go back and teach Margery and 
Lionel the multiplication table was a prospect that 
had lost all its distastefulness. She thought she knew 
now exactly how the prodigal felt when he said, “I 
will arise and go to my Father ...” Yes, to go 
back to-day, and make her confession, and find peace 
once more. 

She half rose from her seat. As she did so two 
ladies entered the compartment, laughing and talk¬ 
ing. A porter followed with their bags and hold- 
alls, arranging them on the rack. This operation 
was scarcely finished when the whistle sounded, there 
was a slamming of doors, and the long train moved 
slowly out of the station. 

Viola leaned back, turning her face to the window. 
She was alone except for these two strangers. And 
she felt that she hated Esme. 

“That was young Craye,” observed the younger 
lady to her companion. “How good-looking he is. 
But I hear he’s a most unsatisfactory son. There’s 
some talk now of his marrying Issie Clethorpe.” 

“I don’t think there’s the slightest chance of that. 
She is far more likely to marry Herringham. He’s 
always down there.” 


174 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Craye is such a Prince Charming. And Issie’s 
a romantic little soul!” 

“Romance,” pronounced the elder lady, authorita¬ 
tively, “is out of date. Whereas, a large fortune, 
three beautiful properties, and a six-hundred-year- 
old name are lasting assets. Issie is fastidious, too— 
she would hardly put up with such a terrible father- 
in-law—old Bethnell Green as he’s always called!” 

Her companion was quite unconvinced. “I know 
which I should choose,” she said, cheerfully. “Esme 
Craye is a most fascinating person. Of course he is 
quite conscienceless, but that only makes him all the 
more attractive. Ele is sure to lead his wife a dance 
whomever he marries, and unless she is blind she will 
certainly realize that beforehand. I never see him 
without thinking of that sage old rhyme, 

Les yeux verts 
Vont a l’enfer . . 

and she laughed merrily. 

Viola listened aghast. But it was all part of this 
dreadful nightmare into which she had been suddenly 
plunged. She kept her face averted, gazing at the 
ugly suburbs of London, the mean, dreadful, mon¬ 
otonous little streets, bleak and poverty-stricken, 
through which the train was rapidly passing. Pres¬ 
ently the buildings gave place to open ground with 
scattered cottages, then to more definite stretches of 
fields, green and sodden in the rain, which was still 
falling heavily. Before long, they came to the Kent¬ 
ish landscape, with its green hop-gardens filled with 
the tall vines, the quaintly shaped oast-houses, the 
red-brick villages looking so calm and peaceful, 
the quiet woods and fields and streams. The rain 
had ceased now and everything was illuminated with 
a pale, fragile glimmer of sunshine. 

Esme’s face seemed to be watching her. It was 


VIOLA HUDSON 


175 

hard and irritable as she had last seen it. “Don’t 
be a little fool!”—those words of his echoed in her 
ears. She had made him angry by that brief, 
attempted rebellion. She hoped by the time he 
joined her in the Boulogne hotel, that he would be 
in a better temper, softer, more forgiving. 

Yes, she was Esme’s wife—that queer little cere¬ 
mony had linked their lives forever. She was Viola 
Craye, not Viola Hudson any more. The Honorable 
Mrs. Esme Craye—how strange it sounded. She 
must learn to answer when people addressed her as 
Mrs. Craye. And soon she would hear no other 
name. This secrecy couldn’t be permitted to con¬ 
tinue. Everyone must be told of the marriage— 
Lord and Lady Bethnell, George and Blanche, Per- 
cival and Cecily, Matthew alone in far Ceylon. 
Blanche would approve; she liked titles even if they 
were quite new ones. Cecily would say scornfully, 
“I suppose he was ashamed of the connection and 
that’s why he married you in such a hole-and-corner 
way. But I’ve always said the Bethnells were 
snobs. ...” Cecily always had a sharp tongue 
and a malicious word. Still, she would regard Viola 
with envy because she had married the heir of Ardle- 
sham. Matthew would take no notice at all; per¬ 
haps he wouldn’t even write to congratulate her. 
He thought people were mad to marry, and he and 
Esme would have nothing at all in common. Mat¬ 
thew was, as she remembered him, and childish im¬ 
pressions are generally pretty correct, a great rough 
man, careless about his dress, speaking in a loud 
voice and with a tendency to swear whenever any¬ 
thing annoyed him. Very different from Esme, 
smooth, suave, polished, glib of speech, slightly 
caustic in criticism. But how loving, how dear, when 
he chose! . . . 

She could see the sea now, lying dark and stormy 
under a gray sky. There was the usual stir of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


176 

arrival. A porter came and took charge of her lug¬ 
gage, and Viola, pulling her thick veil over her face, 
followed him to the steamer. Even she realized now 
the necessity of traveling apart from Esme. Her 
two companions would easily recognize her, and they 
would remember their conversation in the train and 
wonder who this woman was who had overheard 
it all. 

She found the cabin booked in Mrs. Mansfield’s 
name and entered it, but she would far rather have 
spent her time on deck, watching the sea, and the 
white cliffs and the flying gulls. But she was tired, 
too, after all the unaccustomed emotions of the 
morning, and taking off her hat she lay down on 
the sofa. Presently she felt the steamer move, 
almost imperceptibly at first, then, as it left the har¬ 
bor, giving a more pronounced plunge, almost as if 
it rejoiced to feel the rush of water against its keel. 
The motion of the boat soothed her, and she fell 
asleep. She looked very young, scarcely more than 
a child, as she lay there sleeping. The sudden stop¬ 
ping of the boat in Boulogne harbor aroused her. 

Someone took her hand-luggage and carried it to 
the upper deck. Then a French porter in a blue 
blouse seized it and she followed him across the 
gangway to the customs. She did not dare look 
about to find Esme. She felt that he would be angry 
if she recognized him. And it would be difficult, 
nay impossible, to look at him with a blank stare as 
if he had been a stranger. 

She waited till an official came round. He did not 
ask her to open her bag, but marked it with a piece 
of chalk. Then she had to go through the same 
process with her trunks. Soon she was in a fiacre 
driving to the hotel Esme had named. She won¬ 
dered how long she would have to wait for him. 

The wind had risen since the morning and the sea 
was getting very rough. She could hear it thunder- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


177 

ing on the shore with a loud, fierce rhythmic sound. 
She was glad they had been able to cross early before 
the sudden storm arose. 

She waited for more than half an hour, and then 
as Esme did not come she lunched alone. Perhaps 
he had met some friends and gone to lunch with 
them. In his anxiety to preserve the strictest 
secrecy, he seemed to have lost all consideration for 
his bride. She felt lonely and miserable. What 
could have kept him ? v 

The food revived her, for she was very hungry, 
having had little that morning except an early cup 
of tea before the marriage ceremony. What a long 
time ago it seemed, almost as if it had happened in 
another life rather than only that very morning. 
When she had finished her luncheon she went up to 
her room to wait for Esme. The afternoon wore 
on. Every moment the wind increased in violence, 
rattling the fragile casements and blowing gusts of 
rain against them. By night there would be perhaps 
a terrible storm. 

It was not till much later that Viola guessed what 
had really happened. To ensure secrecy Esme must 
have remained behind in London till a later train. 
He would cross perhaps by the evening boat. He 
had not dared risk traveling with his wife, so afraid 
was he of being seen and recognized. When she first 
realized this, Viola felt almost sick with apprehen¬ 
sion. Because he had waited he would have to cross 
in this terrible storm. Perhaps there might be 
danger . . . She trembled at the thought. She sat 
there, a prey to nervous fears. Longing for Esme, 
and yet dreading that moment of his arrival. 

She lay down for a time on the sofa in the sitting- 
room and slept fitfully. When she awoke, a prema¬ 
ture dusk had fallen over the world. Black clouds 
veiled the sky, and the sea was dark and heaving and 
patterned with great white bars of foam that looked 


VIOLA HUDSON 


178 

like scars. It was awful and menacing, and she 
trembled to think that Esme might be on it now. 

It was impossible to remain there idle, so she rose 
and began to unpack her things, arranging them 
neatly in the drawers and cupboards. But she felt 
very tired and lonely, and sometimes it seemed to 
her that the inevitable punishment had already begun 
to fall upon her. She had sacrificed her peace of 
mind to grasp this happiness, and joy had fled from 
her, like a timid thing she could not hold. 

At last she heard a little stir in the passage, there 
was a knock at the door, and Esme came into the 
sitting-room, followed by a man with his luggage. 
He looked very pale and ill from the effects of his 
tempestuous journey across the Channel. When 
they were alone he asked for some brandy and Viola 
gave him some. He threw himself upon the sofa 
and fell into a profound slumber. From time to 
time he moaned a little. In the flickering gas-light 
his face was livid and ghastly. 

Viola felt she should never forget those hours of 
unquiet torment, here alone with Esme in a foreign 
hotel, the storm shrieking outside, and the rain and 
wind dashing against the ill-fitting casements. She 
hardly dared move for fear of disturbing Esme, but 
sat there, chilled and stiff, a prey to the most harass¬ 
ing thoughts and fears. Sometimes she even felt 
that it could not be true—this was only a nightmare 
from which she would surely soon awaken. She 
looked back with envy upon the Viola Hudson who 
had rebelled against her quiet, monotonous life in 
South Kensington. She envied her her peace of mind, 
her state of grace. This thought, coming suddenly, 
stabbed her to fierce suffering. Would she ever 
know again what it was to be in the state of grace, 
she who had wilfully sinned and disobeyed and re¬ 
belled, and had cut herself off from her Church by 
to-day’s unscrupulous action? She longed for Esme 


VIOLA HUDSON 


179 

to awake and comfort her, but he slept on, oblivious 
of her suffering. The brandy he had taken had 
stupefied him. He slept and slept as if he had been 
drugged. 

At last she rang the bell and gave an order for 
some dinner to the waiter. When it came she tried 
to rouse Esme. “Dinner’s here—wouldn’t you like 
some?” she said. Her voice was clear and con¬ 
trolled, and it penetrated across his dazed senses, 
for his answer showed that he had both heard and 
understood. 

“No, no; I don’t want any. Leave me alone . . .” 

Viola swallowed some food with difficulty. All 
the time the wind was clamoring against the house 
as if it would demolish it. The eerie cry of the 
storm alarmed her; it possessed a wailing, human 
sound, as if it were echoing the shrieks of suffering 
men out there on the waste of waters. But Esme 
slept on undisturbed. 

Viola left him at last and went into her bedroom. 
She rightly judged that he would sleep on till 
morning. 

o 


CHAPTER XVII 

E SME was quite ill for several days after their 
arrival; the crossing had thoroughly upset him 
and had also brought on a touch of malaria, from 
which he had previously suffered in India. Viola 
was completely occupied in nursing him. She had 
no experience of nursing, and had also that natural 
alarm of illness so often observable in the perfectly 
healthy. But she was assiduous in her attentions and 
seldom left him for long together. His attitude, 
however, puzzled her. He was nearly always highly 
irritable when she approached him, and his curiously 
uncertain temper manifested itself on every possible 


i8o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


occasion. The truth was, he was never a good 
patient when ill; but Viola, not realizing this, 
blamed herself, and wept secretly when she went to 
bed at night. She believed that he had ceased 
to love her. 

Sometimes she went out of his room with the tears 
stinging her eyes. 

“I’m being punished,” she thought; “he doesn’t 
love me. I’ve lost that too.” The thought was 
unbearable. Had she bartered so much to find her¬ 
self only bereft, in return, of all those things she had 
confidently hoped to win? Her own love made her 
an abject little slave, meek, submissive, humble, not 
realizing that her very fear of displeasing him acted 
like a powerful irritant upon his highly sensitive 
nerves. 

In consequence of his illness they remained in 
Boulogne. Things certainly improved when he was 
better and able to go out again. But she saw that he 
was ill-at-ease; he had the look sometimes of a guilty 
man who dreads discovery, and imagines detection 
in every face he sees. His secret marriage had 
brought him an increase of suffering; perhaps he too 
was beginning to think that it hadn’t, after all, been 
worth the candle. 

One evening when they were walking on the plage 
together, she said to him: “Esme, don’t you think 
you’d better write and tell your people, while we’re 
here? You know we can’t stay in Boulogne forever, 
and they must know sooner or later.” She put her 
hand on his arm. It was getting late, and the place 
was almost deserted. “Do!” she urged, gaining 
courage from his silence. “You’ll never be happy 
until you’ve told them.” 

“Oh, it’s much too soon,” he answered, trying to 
speak lightly. “It’ll be quite time enough to do it 
when we go back to England.” 

“You see,” she continued, “I can’t keep on making 


VIOLA HUDSON 


181 


Percival and Cecily believe that I’m still in Venice. 
Why, it’s more than a month since I left the convent. 
They’ll be getting suspicious at not hearing from 
me. And I must tell Percival because then he will 
give me the money I have a right to when I marry.” 

“Darling child, I’ll give you all the money you 
want. And you can tell your brother—directly I’ve 
told my father.” The old uneasy look came into 
his face. 

“It must be soon, then,” said Viola, firmly. 

“That’s for me to decide,” said Esme, a little 
curtly. 

Viola began to believe that he was one of those 
weak, vacillating characters who have to be urged 
and pushed forward, and encouraged to take difficult 
steps. She had no idea of the iron, unbendable 
quality of her husband’s will. That was one of 
several unpleasant surprises that lay in store for her. 

Always, when looking back upon those weeks 
spent with Esme in Boulogne, she could see how very 
far from happiness she had been. She could not 
have believed that he could be so little tender, so 
apparently uncaring. Fear of discovery was an 
obsession with him, and he seemed in consequence 
unable to derive the slightest pleasure from her 
companionship. Perhaps it was true that a bad son 
makes a bad husband. And she had always been 
perfectly aware of his invincible egoism; it had 
seemed to her the one blot on his perfection. Now 
it actually raised a cruel barrier between them. 
Esme refused to look at things from her point of 
view; he regarded it indeed as merely negligible. 

One day he received an unusually large batch of 
letters forwarded from his club. His valet, who 
was partially in the secret, had been told to call for 
the letters and forward them. He knew that his 
master was abroad on private business, and perhaps 
he guessed its nature. Esme had completely covered 


182 


VIOLA HUDSON 


up his tracks except from this one person, who had 
a singular and doglike devotion to him, and would 
certainly have died rather than betray him. Accus¬ 
tomed to his master’s caprice and violence, he would 
not have exchanged it for any other form of 
servitude. 

Among the letters Viola noticed a long official 
envelope. Esme put it aside, to be dealt with last 
of all. He had a strange way of tearing up all his 
letters the moment he had read them. And he read 
them so perfunctorily she could not believe that he 
had had time to grasp their contents. 

All the other letters having been disposed of after 
this fashion, Esme took up the long envelope bearing 
the printed words, On Her Majesty’s Service. He 
opened it, read its contents, and threw it on the table 
with a gesture of disgust. 

“I’m recalled—” he said briefly. “My regiment’s 
ordered up to the frontier.” 

Viola felt her heart sink, and a deadly chill crept 
over her whole body. For the first time in her life 
she was frightened—so frightened that she could 
have screamed with terror. She saw Esme leaving 
her, going away from her, perhaps forever. Re¬ 
called . - _ ordered up to the frontier . . . She 
realized for the first time, that he was a soldier and 
might have to pay a soldier’s debt. She went across 
to him and kneeling beside him put her arms about 
him. He stooped and leaned his cheek against hers. 

Through their brief married life he had never 
seemed to her so near, so dear, so essentially her own 
as he did then. 

“Esme—I can’t bear it,” she whispered. 

There was a long silence. They remained thus 
close to each other, clasping each other. Viola said 
at last: 

“We must go back to Ardlesham. We ought to 


VIOLA HUDSON 183 

leave this afternoon. We mustn’t waste anv time, 
Esme.” y 

He released himself and rose to his feet. “Oh, 
it s impossible for you to come to Ardlesham with 
me. I shall just run down and say good-by to them, 
of course. They’ll be awfully upset. But I couldn’t 
take you—that’s out of the question.” 

Viola rose unsteadily to her feet. “You must take 
me, Esme. I insist upon it. I’ve a right to go.” 
She stood there in front of him, proudly, like a young 
queen. 

“Nonsense—you must do just as you’re told,” he 
answered. 

“But, Esme, if I don’t go with you, where am I to 
go? What am I to do?” 

“You must make your own plans. Perhaps you’d 
better go back to your brother’s. Carry on—it won’t 
be for very long—till I can come home again.” 

“Esme—” 

“Oh, don’t worry me, darling. As if this wasn’t 
enough!” 

He sat down at the table and began to write rap¬ 
idly. Viola sank into a chair. She was weeping 
silently. He was going into danger, perhaps never 
to return. And it was obviously his intention not to 
acknowledge her before he went away. He was 
going off, just as he had always done as a boy, leav¬ 
ing her to face her punishment alone. A little curious 
perhaps and interested, but without any pity. “Oh, 
did you catch it?” he would say carelessly afterward. 
“Rotten luck!” 

Rotten luck . . . But it had been her own fault. 
She had followed blindly when he beckoned. She 
loved him, desperately, unwisely, to her soul’s hurt. 
“I am being punished,” she thought, again. 

“Oh, don’t blub, Viola!” he burst out, unable to 
restrain his impatience. He shivered as he spoke. 

Viola hastily dried her tears. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


184 

“You can be frightfully depressing. And I always 
thought you had such a cheerful nature!” 

“Well, you mustn’t blame me if I don’t feel ex¬ 
actly cheerful to-day,” she answered, with some show 
of spirit. 

“You’re always at me to do the one thing you 
know is quite impossible,” he continued, fretfully. 
“I’ve told you hundreds of times that I can’t tell my 
father I’ve married you. You knew I should have 
to keep it from him—I never tried to hide that from 
you.” 

She was silent. Yes, he had never deceived her 
on this point. She had trusted too much to her own 
influence after marriage. 

“I’ll give you enough to live upon. It won’t be 
very much, but you must try to make it do. And 
you must arrange your own life for these next few 
months. Perhaps you’d like to go back to Venice? 
Those women were decent to you, weren’t they? 
You’d be all right there.” 

She looked at him strangely, rather as if she were 
scrutinizing a stranger, coldly and critically. For 
he was a stranger, this hard, unloving Esme. 

“No; I shan’t go back to Venice. I shall go to 
Percival and tell him the whole story, and ask his 
advice. He’s very easy-going as a rule, but he’s a 
lawyer—he can help me. Perhaps he will write to 
your father.” 

Esme looked at her with hard, frosty eyes. 

“Oh, so you mean to go back on me?” he said. 

“You leave me no choice.” 

All the time she was thinking: “He counted on 
my not crying out. But he’ll find he’s made a mis¬ 
take.” She was dimly aware that the consequences 
of her disobedience would be far-reaching. Not just 
a transitory penalty such as she had suffered at Miss 
Malleson’s hands. 

He got up and came close to her, putting his arms 


VIOLA HUDSON 185 

about her and kissing her with the old passionate 
tenderness. “Darling, we mustn’t quarrel now. 
We’ve so few hours left to spend together. Perhaps 
we ought never to have married, but since we are 
married it’s our duty to help and comfort each other. 
And we must stand by each other, Viola. As my 
wife you owe me complete, unquestioning loyalty. 
If you tell your brother that you’re married you 
must give your husband’s name as Rowland Mans¬ 
field. You must always call yourself Mrs. Mansfield. 
That will be quite enough to satisfy Percival. Will 
you promise, Viola?” 

“I can’t promise, because one never knows what 
may happen. But I really will do my best, Esme.” 

When he was in this mood of bewildering tender¬ 
ness she felt that she could trust him completely. It 
chased away all her ugly little doubts and fears. 

“It’s so very important that nothing should be 
known,” he said. 

“Yes,” she agreed. 

“We must leave for London by the afternoon 
boat. I think we shall be safe traveling at the same 
time as long as we don’t stick together.” 

“Yes, Esme.” 

“You’d better go and do your packing.” He 
kissed her again, satisfied that she was once more 
soothed into a quiet submissive mood. 

She went out of the room, forcing back her tears. 
It would never do to disfigure her face by crying 
now. Afterward there would be days, weeks, 
months, perhaps years wherein she could cry undis¬ 
turbed. But this was a moment for calm and cour¬ 
age. The sudden separation would hurt him too. 
He really loved her. All that surface irritation sig¬ 
nified nothing but a preoccupation, an anxiety about 
the future. She must be careful not to annoy him 
now by any manifestation of emotion. 

The trivial activity of packing distracted her. 


186 


VIOLA HUDSON 


She packed Esme's things as well as her own. It 
would be a relief to him when he came in to find 
that she had already accomplished that odious but 
necessary task. 

“We'd better go down to lunch,” he said, sud¬ 
denly appearing. 

“Yes. Em just ready. Everything’s finished.” 
She looked up smiling, her face a little flushed, for 
the August day was sultry. 

“Splendid! What a w T ife you are, Viola! I 
don’t know how I shall get along without you.” 

“I wish you hadn’t to get along without me. 
When I’m so ready to come to the ends of the 
earth. ...” 

His eyes were very bright as they rested upon 
her young, perfect loveliness. It wouldn’t be so 
easy to leave her behind, after all. He would want 
her. She was all grace and charm. 

“Oh, my darling, my darling,” he murmured. 

She was touched by the rare words of praise; 
they made her feel ready to die for Esme. They 
went downstairs together. Viola’s eyes were still 
bright from those unshed tears. 

It was only a few weeks since their wedding-day 
and already their separation was imminent. Al¬ 
though Esme had once or twice alluded to the pros¬ 
pect of a frontier campaign, she had refused to allow 
her thoughts to dwell upon it. And she had not 
really believed—she still found it impossible to be¬ 
lieve—that he meant to leave her behind when he 
went back to India. Something would happen— 
he would blurt out the truth to his father—and 
surely in such a moment of approaching peril the 
old man could not but proffer forgiveness. Surely 
they would receive her, welcome her, because Esme 
loved her and had made her his wife. She con¬ 
fidently believed that this nebulous something would 
intervene and make everything clear and open and 



VIOLA HUDSON 


187 

unambiguous. She would not face the unpalatable 
truth that all through these days of their marriage 
her hold upon Esme had been visibly slackening. 
His love had spent itself. And while it surely 
diminished, his fear of discovery increased by leaps 
and bounds. Fie had not the slightest intention of 
risking a quarrel with his parents by revealing this 
imprudent marriage. Flis instinct was to wait, to 
mark time, to trust to chance. 

She took her seat opposite to him at the little 
table. And as she looked at him, calmly eating his 
food, a cold sickly feeling took possession of her. 
It was as if for the first time she was able to measure 
him accurately, unbiassed by his passing mood of 
tenderness, and by the kisses with which he had tried 
to soothe her. Fie intended to leave her behind, 
unacknowledged. His one thought was to protect, 
to safeguard himself. Flis face so beautiful, possess¬ 
ing for her an eternal attraction, was hard, cold, 
and insensitive. Many a Greek marble had more 
soul in its carven face than Esme Craye possessed 
in his flesh and blood one. 

Suddenly she leaned back in her chair and closed 
her eyes. She was faint with a definite physical 
fear. Esme’s face was hidden now behind a black 
mist that descended upon it like a curtain. A sound 
as of pitiless roaring engines deafened her. . . . 

The next thing she knew w r as a cool rush of water 
flowing over her face and hair, trickling down her 
neck into the collar of her dress. Esme’s voice was 
saying: “There, are you better?” 

She looked up. She was lying on a sofa outside 
in the vestibule, and Esme’s face, with real anxiety 
and concern in it, was bending above her. 

“I can’t think what came over me. . . .” she mur¬ 
mured. 

“Have you ever fainted before?” 

“No ... it feels like dying. . . 


188 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Dying!” repeated Esme, with something of hor~ 
ror in his voice. 

Viola closed her eyes again. She felt mortally 
tired, as if the brief fit of unconsciousness had ex¬ 
hausted her. Perhaps her soul had traveled many, 
many miles while her body lay thus unconscious, and 
had grown weary. 

“I wonder what on earth made you faint!” 
Mingled with his anxiety there was a note of acute 
irritation. But she felt too weak to care. 

“Of course, if you’re not fit to travel to-day you 
must follow to-morrow,” he added. 

Even across her still dazed senses the selfishness 
of the suggestion sickened her. 

“Oh, it's nothing,” she said. “I expect I got 
tired stooping over the boxes. And then this sud¬ 
den news. . . .” She tried to smile. 

His expression was still hideously perturbed. 

“My darling child, you gave me no end of a 
fright.” 

He told a passing waiter to bring some brandy, 
and poured a little of the fiery liquid down her 
throat. The unaccustomed stimulant acted like 
magic, bringing back the color to her cheeks. 

“That’s better. We shall have to start for the 
boat soon. Do you think you feel well enough?” 

She struggled to her feet. If she died in the 
effort, she resolved that she would not be left alone 
in Boulogne that day. She would travel home by 
the same boat and train as Esme, whatever hap¬ 
pened. 

“Oh, yes, I couldn’t be left behind,” she assured 
him. 

Would he really have seized upon this excuse to 
make the journey alone, glad to escape the chance 
of stray detection? 

They drove down to the quay together, and as the 
^rain from Paris had not yet arrived he accompanied 


VIOLA HUDSON 


189 


her on board the steamer and saw her safely en¬ 
sconced in a deck cabin. He placed her bag on the 
little table and put a flask of brandy near her. 

“I think it’s going to be calm. But if you feel 
at all queer take some of that,” he said. He looked 
at her questioningly. She was flushed and feverish 
now, and excited, as people who have recently 
fainted so often are. She put out her hand. 

“Oh, do stay with me, Esme. These are our last 
hours together.” 

“Oh, don’t be sentimental!” he cried, in an exas¬ 
perated tone. 

He went out, slamming the door. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A T FOLKESTONE Esme did not approach 
Viola, and she saw him in the distance leaving 
the boat with a party of men. He did not attempt 
to join her, and she had to make her way to the 
train alone, feeling exhausted and a little dizzy from 
the motion of the steamer. 

She supposed that he would speak to her at 
Charing Cross and tell her what they were going 
to do. She was ready to fall in with any suggestion 
he might make. She felt too ill to form plans for 
herself. 

The London platform was almost clear of people 
when Esme suddenly appeared. 

“Have you settled what you’re going to do?” he 
asked. 

Esme—you won’t leave me to-day?” she cried, 
aghast. 

He frowned. “I thought you understood. I’m 
going down to Ardlesham to-night. I must break 
the news to them about my going back. To-morrow 
I shall have to come up to the War Office, and I’ll 
meet you somewhere if you like.” 


T9o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Her heart sank. She put out both hands in en¬ 
treaty. “Oh, don’t leave me like that! Esme—I 
can’t bear it.” She could have flung herself on her 
knees upon the grimy platform, there at his feet. 

“Don’t make a scene. Come—get into this cab. 
You’ll go to your brother’s, I suppose?” 

He held open the door of a moldy looking four- 
wheeler. She saw that her box had already been 
hoisted upon it. Viola hesitated. 

“Get in!” Esme’s voice commanded impatiently. 

She groped her way in. 

“I’ll wire to you about our meeting. If not to¬ 
morrow, the day after. You’d better give me the 
address.” 

She scribbled it on a piece of paper, and gave it 
to him. 

“It’ll be safe if I wire, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes,” wearily, “I should think they’re all 
out of town still.” 

“Well, my advice to you is to go to bed as soon 
as you can and get a good long rest.” 

“Very well, Esme.” Her lips were white. 

Ele put his foot on the step and leaning toward 
her kissed her. 

“You must be brave,” he said. “It’s a difficult 
moment for us both. But you always had heaps of 
pluck. Good-by, darling—we shall soon meet. 
Try to keep cheerful . . .” His eyes rested upon 
her face and suddenly his expression softened. He 
kissed her again. 

When the cab drove away, Viola leaned back and 
burst into tears. All this time she had not cried, 
she had repressed her tears, for fear of annoying 
Esme, and leaving an impression of damp sentimen¬ 
tality upon him. Men hated tears—she had been 
brought up on that tradition—and Esme had always 
been annoyed if she had shown the slightest disposi¬ 
tion to cry. But now that he was no longer there 


VIOLA HUDSON 


191 

to see and be annoyed, her tears flowed freely and 
unchecked. Mingled with the pain of separation, 
there was the wound to her pride. She felt there 
was. something so ignominious about this home-¬ 
coming. A bride returning alone from her wedding- 
trip while her husband went home to visit his par¬ 
ents! She longed, for one desperate moment, to 
follow him down to Ardlesham, to insist upon re¬ 
vealing the truth to Lady Bethnell. But the mad im¬ 
pulse passed. Esme would certainly never forgive 
her, and she was not nearly so sure of his love now 
as she had been before their marriage. 

Before her, too, lay the disagreeable prospect of 
telling Percival about her marriage—this clandestine 
marriage of which she was only permitted to reveal 
so little. And it wouldn’t be easy to deceive him. 
Through all his cheery surface good-nature he was 
a very able man of law. Pie would ask her ques¬ 
tions, close, direct questions. Pie wouldn’t be satis¬ 
fied with evasive answers. She was, however, deter¬ 
mined to obey Esme and suppress the name of the 
man she had married. From henceforth she was 
to be Mrs. Rowland Mansfield. 

And if she obeyed Esme implicitly, surely that 
would win him. He loved a prompt cheerful com¬ 
pliance with his most exacting demands. Then he 
would display in return a sunny good-humor that 
signified approval. 

She was afraid she hadn’t been very cheerful that 
day. But the suddenness of the news had over¬ 
whelmed her. They had had to part at a few hours’ 
notice, and soon he would go away altogether and 
it might be many months before she could see him 
again. The thought of those months alarmed and 
disquieted her. She saw them like long black inter¬ 
vals, filled to the brim with anxiety, with terrors 
of all kinds. She was sorry she had fainted like that 
—she wondered why it had happened. She had 


VIOLA HUDSON 


192 

never fainted before, even that day when she fell 
from the cedar-tree and cut her head and arm. 

The cab stopped before Percival’s house, and 
Viola descended and hurried up the steps. The door 
was opened by Rebecca, the maid who had once 
been in Miss Malleson’s service and had known 
her since she was a child. The sight of Rebecca’s 
thin, grim, unlovely visage filled Viola with a definite 
sense of comfort and well-being. 

u Oh, Rebecca—I’ve come back!” she said, and 
kissed her, just as she had done as a little child. 

The practical Rebecca descended the steps and 
gave orders to the cabman about the trunk. He de¬ 
posited it in the hall and she gave him his fare. 
When the door was shut, Viola turned to her 
eagerly. 

“Is Mrs. Hudson here?” 

“No, Miss Viola. They’re all down at Dawlish. 
They won’t be back for about a month.” 

“And my brother?” 

“He was here last week for a night, but he said 
he shouldn’t be up again just yet.” 

Viola felt at once relieved and disappointed. The 
moment of disclosure was thus automatically post¬ 
poned, and many things might happen before the 
month came to an end. She w r as too tired now, to 
cope with any more problems. 

“Would you get my room ready, please, Rebecca? 
I shall want to go to bed soon. I haven’t been very 
well.” 

Rebecca threw open the door of the study where 
Viola had lain on the sofa reading novels that foggy 
day last January. 

“I’ll bring you some tea, miss. The water’s on 
the boil. Jinny and I were just going to have a cup.” 

Rebecca disappeared to the kitchen regions. 
Viola sank into a chair. She was too tired to cry, 
too tired almost to feel. But this home-coming was 


VIOLA HUDSON 


i93 

terrible. Even Cecily with her acid tongue would 
have been preferable to this loneliness. 

Rebecca returned very soon with the tea-tray. 
She noticed that Viola was looking very white and 
she opened the window. A faint breath of sultry 
August air stole as if reluctantly into the room. 

“You do look bad, miss,” she observed. “Have 
you been ill?” 

Viola was popular with all the servants, because 
she gave few orders and no trouble. But by Rebecca 
she was respectfully worshiped, and once or twice 
Viola had wondered if Esme would let her engage 
her as her own maid. 

“Oh, no. But I’m tired after my journey.” 

“You’ve just come from abroad, miss?” 

“Yes.” 

She drank the tea; it was strong and aromatic 
and very hot. The stimulant revived her. Rebecca 
left her alone and went upstairs to get her room 
ready. This process was not completed before Viola 
herself appeared. She had climbed the flights of 
narrow London stairs with flagging footsteps. 

“I think I’ll have a bath,” she said. 

“Shall I turn the water on now, miss?” 

“Yes, please.” 

The bathroom was on the same floor. Viola felt 
refreshed by the soothing contact of the hot water. 
She was already feeling better by the time she got 
into bed. From the mingled effects of fatigue, ex¬ 
haustion and grief, she quickly fell asleep. 

“Miss Viola looks ill,” Rebecca remarked to the 
“tweeny,” as they repaired to the kitchen to con¬ 
sider the question of dinner, the cook being still 
away on her holiday. “I’ve never seen her look like 
that before,” she added. 

The tweeny, who was a cockney with all the preco¬ 
cious intelligence of her race, giggled. “Did you 
see ’er ’and?” she inquired. 


194 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“No, I didn’t. What was the matter with it?” 
asked Rebecca, vaguely annoyed by something in 
Jinny’s manner. She was an old servant, punctili¬ 
ously loyal, and there was a hint of rebuke in her 
tone as if she would not permit underlings to com¬ 
ment upon the family. 

“She ’ad on a wedding-ring,” giggled the tweeny, 
putting her hand over her mouth as if to restrain a 
louder guffaw. 

“Nonsense!” said Rebecca, obviously startled. 

“Well, you jes’ look for yerself, then,” said Jinny. 
She giggled again, and her fat face was pink with 
enjoyment. The situation was delightfully mysteri¬ 
ous and certainly called for explanation. 

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, 
Jinny,” said Rebecca, loftily, “but it strikes me that 
you see too much with those little pigs’ eyes of 
yours.” She delivered the insult with emphasis, 
and Jinny’s face grew pink again from an entirely 
different emotion. “You’d better go on with your 
scrubbing and see to your dirty dishes and learn 
not to talk so much. You’ll have something going 
wrong with your tongue one of these days if you 
let it run away with you like this. Wedding-ring, 
indeed!” 

Jinny pouted. “Well, yer can see it for yerself,” 
she said. Rebecca might scold and rebuke her, 
but she was determined to stick to her point. She 
had seen the wedding-ring with her own eyes, and 
she was convinced that Miss Viola had got married, 
secretly and on the sly, while she was away. 

Rebecca, despite her reproofs, felt exceedingly 
uncomfortable. Jinny could hardly have invented 
such a thing as that. She must remember to look 
at Miss Viola’s hands when she took her up her 
dinner. 

Her rebuke still rankled in Jinny’s mind. She 
resolved to have the last word. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


195 

“There is sech things as weddings, Miss Rebecca, 
even though they don’t ’appen to have come your 
way,” she said, with a wicked little grin, and a fur¬ 
tive glance from the pigs’ eyes. 

Rebecca tossed her head, and went out of the 
kitchen. Really, the girl’s cheek was insufferable. 
How Mrs. Hudson could keep her! Some day she 
meant to tell her what a sly artful little creature 
Jinny was. 

It was dark when Rebecca knocked again at 
Viola’s door, and she knocked twice without receiv¬ 
ing any answer. Then she opened the door, 
switched on the electric light, and deposited her tray 
on the table. Having done this she stood beside 
the bed and deliberately contemplated Viola, with 
the privileged intimacy of the old trusted servant. 

Viola’s dark hair was all loosened, and spread 
over the pillow like a soft shadowy cloud. She was 
very pale, and there were traces of tears on her 
face. One hand was stretched out and upon the 
third finger of it glimmered a little gold ring. The 
sight of that ring seemed to hynotize Rebecca; she 
stood there, gazing at the pale hand with its signifi¬ 
cant symbol. Then Viola awoke, and their eyes met. 

She said quite simply: “Yes, I’m married, Re¬ 
becca. I haven’t told anyone yet. My name is . . . 
Mrs. Mansfield.” She hesitated as she pro¬ 
nounced it. 

“I’m very glad to hear you’re married, ma’am. 
I hope you’ll be very happy.” 

“Thank you, Rebecca.” 

“I hope the gentleman’s a good Catholic, 
ma am r 

“No. I’m afraid he isn’t. You must pray for 
him.” 

“Yes, ma’am. But I’m sorry he’s not a Catholic. 
Miss Malleson would have been grieved to think 
you’d married a Protestant.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


196 

“Yes, Rebecca, I know she would. But one can’t 
always help these things.” 

“No, ma’am. I suppose not.” Rebecca’s voice 
was all respect. “I hope you’re feeling better, 
ma’am, and that you’ll be able to eat some dinner.” 
She moved toward the door. 

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me. I only 
want a good night’s sleep.” 

Yet, was it true that there w T as nothing the matter 
with her? Her heart was broken with grief, and 
there had come a shadow between her soul and Al¬ 
mighty God. The shadow of her own sin of dis¬ 
obedience. She would have to expiate that sin. 
She couldn’t escape. As she lay there, she shivered 
violently from head to foot. It seemed to her 
almost that life was ebbing from her. 

She rang the bell sharply, and Rebecca came 
running back into her room in hot haste. 

“Oh, whatever’s the matter, ma’am? Are you 
feeling ill?” 

“No—no—Rebecca—but I’m frightened! Don’t 
go away.” 

She clung to Rebecca’s gnarled w T ork-worn hand, 
and still holding it clutched tightly in her own she 
fell into an uneasy sleep. 

“If she’s not better in the morning I must send 
for the doctor,” thought Rebecca. 

She looked down at the hand upon which the 
wedding-ring hung so loosely. Who was this man 
she had married, and why had he let her return 
home alone? 


CHAPTER XIX 

S INCE Rebecca’s fixed, interrogative gaze had 
surprised her into a confession, Viola resolved 
to lose no time in writing to Percival to inform him 
of her marriage. By the same post she sent a note 


VIOLA HUDSON 


197 

addressed to Esme at his club. Fie would find it if 
he came to London that day, and thus even if he 
had not time to come and see her, he would at least 
receive news of her and learn that she was better. 
Indeed on the morning following her arrival Viola 
awoke feeling wonderfully refreshed. She sprang 
out of bed, and looked out of the window. In that 
narrow strip of pale London sky there was a hint of 
deep clear blue. It was going to be a lovely day. 
It would perhaps bring Esme. They would be 
happy together; she wouldn’t worry him with her 
own anxieties about the future. 

But although she w r aited in all that day, he did 
not come, nor did she receive telegram or message 
from him. Naturally he would be very busy. He 
would have a certain amount of kit to get; he must 
call at the War Office; he must prepare for his long 
voyage. Still, she was disappointed, and by eve¬ 
ning all her gay spirits had evaporated. She waited 
up till nearly eleven o’clock, hoping that he might 
come. She had told him she was alone in the house 
except for the servants, and that therefore he could 
come without danger. She could count on Rebecca’s 
silence and loyalty. It would be delicious to receive 
Esme here, as it were in her own home. 

On the following morning his letter arrived. He 
would come to see her on Saturday. And to-day 
was only Thursday. She had still two whole days 
to wait, before that so-desired meeting. Instinct 
told her that it would be a momentous one, in¬ 
fluencing their future lives to an unimaginable, al¬ 
most unparalleled, extent. Even while she looked 
forward to seeing him again, to hearing those words 
of recovered tenderness he was bound to offer, there 
was something within her that feared it. He had 
seen his parents; he knew exactly how he stood in 
their regard, and if he had made any tentative efforts 
to reveal the truth, she would have to know that too. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


198 

Through those two days Viola was a prey to fears, 
to misgivings. 

On Friday morning Percival’s answer reached 
her. Although it was brief she could read between 
the lines, and could note his unexpressed dissatis¬ 
faction, the points which offered food for anxiety 
to his legal mind. “There is always a great danger 
about a secret marriage,” he wrote, “especially when 
one of the parties is as young and inexperienced as 
yourself. You are not even of age. Men have 
sometimes pretended to go through a ceremony of 
marriage in order to obtain possession of a woman, 
knowing all the time that it was in no way binding 
and wholly void in law. It would be very difficult 
for you to be certain that all the necessary condi¬ 
tions had been fulfilled. It is strange, too, that you 
should have returned home alone. What excuse 
did this Mansfield make for leaving you so soon 
after the wedding? It is a most anomalous position 
for you, and the whole thing points to a strong mo¬ 
tive for secrecy which has its sinister aspect. If you 
find yourself in any difficulty wire for me and I will 
come at once. Cecily sends her love. I think she 
is hurt that you did not confide in her. We are both 
astonished that you did not insist upon being mar¬ 
ried in a Catholic church. I have always admired 
the way in which your Church safeguards mar¬ 
riage . . .” 

There was another letter from Esme by the same 
post, written at Ardlesham but bearing a London 
post-mark. “I shall come at twelve on Saturday. 
As you are alone I shall come to the house as you 
suggest and perhaps you will give me lunch. I’m up 
to the eyes in the tiresomest business. My father 
is in a very queer mood, one might almost think he 
suspects something. I stayed away too long, it 
seems, and wrote too seldom. And ‘what the devil 
was I doing in France at all?’ You can fill in the 


VIOLA HUDSON 199 

picture,, a very pleasant one and typical of British 
domestic harmony. Keep all your smiles for me, 
darling, I shall need them. By the way, there is 
much gossip about Isolde Clethorpe and Herring- 
ham. To save my face I dined at Riversedge last 
night. I don’t wish to be conceited, but I think 
she prefers me to the portly and opulent Her- 
ringham.” 

Well, when Esme came he would necessarily have 
to see Percival’s letter. He must realize for him¬ 
self that this secret business had aroused the sus¬ 
picions of an eminent barrister who had matrimonial 
law at his fingers’ ends. Esme would have to learn 
that she couldn’t go on being secret and mysterious. 
Everyone must hear the truth, that she was married, 
that she was his wife. If necessary he must face 
poverty for her sake. He couldn’t leave her alone 
to suffer, like an abandoned, deserted woman. He 
must make their marriage public. And suddenly she 
realized, with a sense of acute relief, that she had 
an efficient prop in Percival. Pie was indolent and 
easy-going in his own home, good-humored, blunt 
of speech, too fond of his food, but once his legal 
interest was aroused no one could possibly be more 
astute, practical, and industrious. If Esme con¬ 
tinued obstinate, she would insist upon a meeting be¬ 
tween the two men. She remembered the astonished 
and significantly inquisitive expression upon Re¬ 
becca’s face as she allowed her eyes to rest upon 
that tell-tale ring. It had forced from her the 
simple confession: “Yes—I’m married, Rebecca.” 
She was glad to be able to say those words. For 
there would inevitably be talk among the servants— 
the critical discussions one didn’t mind when every¬ 
thing was smooth and straightforward. But any 
suggestion of secrecy was bound to give rise to gos¬ 
sip, lendirg too, a disagreeable edge to it, piquing 
curiosity, and prompting suppositions that were not 


200 


VIOLA HUDSON 


always kind. Viola, sensitive and thin-skinned still 
from lack of contact with the world, which is such an 
excellent hardener of skins, writhed at the thought 
of misunderstanding and misconception. Percival’s 
letter, kind though it was, had bruised her. She be¬ 
gan to see w T hat the world w T ould say when it learned 
of her marriage. And she could not be tied to 
silence—she must speak, she must defend herself, 
her own action. 

Even Percival, who troubled himself so little 
about religion, had expressed his astonishment that* 
she should have foregone a Catholic marriage cere¬ 
mony. There was a touch of sternness in the letter, 
which she had never before associated with this 
easy-going brother. He would certainly be a match 
for Esme. He would force him to speak. She was 
glad to think she would have Percival so strongly 
on her side. . . . 

It was nearly one o’clock on Saturday morning 
before Rebecca opened the drawing-room door and 
announced “Mr. Mansfield.” Viola was sitting, 
waiting for him; all through the past hour she had 
shown signs of an almost unbearable restlessness. 
He was so late that she had begun to fear he didn’t 
intend to come, after all. He would put her off with 
another excuse. It was such a relief to see him, that 
she ran forward, eagerly, breathlessly, and flung her 
arms about his neck, crying, “Esme! Esme” . . . 

She had worked hard, during those three days, 
to get the room ready with Rebecca’s help. Cecily 
always left everything covered up with newspapers 
and the furniture swathed in brown holland. And 
Viola was unable to endure the prospect of greeting 
Esme in a room where the mirrors and pictures pre¬ 
sented ghostly newspaper-covered shapes. She had 
made it all look as pretty as she could, changing 
something of Cecily’s stiffness of arrangement, and 
heaping up the place with fresh-cut flowers. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


201 


Esme took her by the shoulders, gazed into her 
face with his tender whimsical look, and then kissed 
her lightly. As always, he was struck afresh by her 
beauty—it seemed to him more wonderful at every 
new meeting. If only things could be straightened 
out and he could claim her openly as his wife! . . . 

“Darling, 1 ’ he murmured. 

“Lunch will be ready very soon,” said Viola, pres¬ 
ently. “We won’t talk about anything till after 
we’ve had it.” 

It was a short meal, as perfect as Rebecca and 
the tweeny could manage without professional aid. 
Esme praised the food, and ate and drank heartily. 
Viola’s smiling face opposite reassured him. She 
was beginning perhaps to settle down, to realize how 
important it was to keep everything perfectly quiet 
till a more auspicious day should dawn. He was 
therefore ill-prepared for the unpleasant surprise 
of Percival’s letter, when they found themselves 
once more in the drawing-room. 

“I’ve had a letter from Percival, and I want you 
to read what he says,” she began, laying the open 
sheet of paper before him. 

“Viola dearest—I’m sick to death of talking 
things over. Do, for goodness’ sake, give me a holi¬ 
day from it to-day.” 

He leaned back, crossed his legs, and lit a cigar¬ 
ette, looking at her lazily through the little mist of 
smoke. 

Her lips closed firmly, and all at once her face be¬ 
came hard and resolute. 

“It’s got to be done. Don’t let’s shirk it,” she 
said. 

Esme’s nerves were on edge. It was tactless, he 
felt, for her to press him like this. She was going 
to be tiresome then! Well, if she meant to ask 
for trouble, he was ready to give it to her with both 
hands! He steeled himself against the slowly- 


202 


VIOLA HUDSON 


growing fascination she was always able to exercise 
oyer him. With that force of purity and goodness 
and high resolve in his life, what a different man he 
might become. And he would love her always—love 
her till death. . . . 

“When you’ve read the letter you’ll see how im¬ 
possible it is that I should continue to keep your 
name out of it. Percival is a lawyer and he isn’t 
easily satisfied. And in a sense, though not of course 
legally, he is my guardian.’’ 

Esme glanced at the letter and flung it on the 
table. 

“My darling child, you can’t possibly expect me to 
read all that palaver!” 

“You must read it, please, Esme. You must see 
exactly how I stand—what he says about my posi¬ 
tion.” 

“Why on earth did you tell him that you were 
married at all?” 

“I was obliged to tell him, so that he may give 
me my money.” 

Esme disliked law and lawyers. His experience 
of them had not been smooth or pleasant. He knew 
their detestable habit of detecting a w r eak spot. 
What a pity Percival belonged to that disagreeable 
tribe! He took up the letter again, read it atten¬ 
tively, and for the second time flung it away. 

“He seems as suspicious as most lawyers,” he 
said, angrily. 

Viola sat there, looking very white and stern, her 
hands folded in her lap. 

“I mean to put myself in his hands. To do just 
as he advises,” she said. 

“Nonsense, you’re going to do nothing of the 
kind. You aren’t beginning to funk, are you? You 
never used to funk!” 

“I didn’t find Percival’s letter very reassuring,” 
she said, coldly. 



VIOLA HUDSON 


203 


“Don’t talk like that, my darling. You owe me 
all your loyalty now. Leave this odious brother of 
yours alone. Why, I thought you hated the whole 
lot of them 1” 

“I have never hated Percival.” 

Remembering scenes of a similar character in 
Boulogne and even before, Esme tried to cajole her, 
to kiss her back into a state of due subjection. But 
somehow he didn’t like this suggestion of interfer¬ 
ence from the man of law. The letter, stern, a little 
reproachful, seemed to show plainly that Percival 
was prepared to come to his sister’s aid should diffi¬ 
culties arise. And it would be aid of an efficient, 
highly technical character. This entirely altered the 
aspect of affairs. Viola was not of age, and this 
man had certain rights. He was also apparently 
her trustee. These complications alarmed Esme. 
It was most important that no rumor of the affair 
should reach Lord Bethnell’s ears. His mother had 
at last prevailed upon his father to settle an ade¬ 
quate sum upon him. Lord Bethnell made it con¬ 
tingent upon his son’s not marrying without parental 
approval. Lady Bethnell had done her best to ob¬ 
tain it unconditionally, but the old man was obdu¬ 
rate. The hoped-for marriage with Miss Clethorpe 
had fallen through, and he attributed its failure to 
the philandering methods his son had displayed. 
Then the prolonged absence of Esme in France had 
stimulated suspicion, and even his mother, usually 
so tolerant, had denounced it as foolish and hazard¬ 
ous. Thus it will be seen that the atmosphere of 
Ardlesham had been by no means serene. Esme was 
blamed for the ill-success of the Clethorpe scheme. 
But he had sat there, listening, smiling blandly, 
thinking of Viola, aware of an occasional impulse to 
tell his mother the whole story. But although his 
parents were at variance over many things, they 
presented an united front in the matter of his mar- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


204 

riage. He was to marry well. There must be 
money and position, allied if possible to youth, 
beauty and charm. 

He had hoped to find a calmer atmosphere await¬ 
ing him here in South Kensington. And now he 
could not help acknowledging to himself that, lovely 
though Viola was, she lacked the gentle amenable 
disposition which w r ould have accepted his word as 
final. He didn’t like scenes, and already the discus¬ 
sion was being conducted with the acerbity associated 
with scenes. 

She was determined to publish their marriage, and 
he was equally determined to keep it a secret. And 
now within an hour of their meeting she had re¬ 
turned with unabated ardor to the charge. 

Well, if she persisted. . . . Yes, he had his 
answer to that too, if she drove him into a corner. 

He looked at her out of his half-closed eyes. 
But when he tried to take her hand as a preliminary 
to those caresses which were to drive all disagree¬ 
able thoughts out of her head, she quietly released it. 

“No, Esme; we must discuss this seriously.” 

Even in these few days she had changed. She 
had become, as it were, much more of a woman. 
Older, more capable, with a new poise and assurance. 

“I don’t know what’s come over you,” he said, 
in a slightly exasperated tone. “You’re not a bit 
nice to me to-day, darling. If I’d known you were 
going to be in this argumentative mood, I shouldn’t 
have come.” 

“And do you know what would have happened if 
you hadn’t come?” 

“I hope you would have cried your pretty eyes 
out,” he replied, in a light bantering tone. 

“Do you understand? If you hadn’t come—if 
I’d felt you didn’t really mean to come—I should 
have written to ask Percival to communicate with 
Ardlesham.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


205 

She was serious, then. She must have something 
—something of which he was ignorant—tucked 
away up her sleeve. 

‘‘You would have done nothing of the kind! You 
made me a most solemn promise.” 

“No, I made no more promises than you did. I 
can’t let you go back to India without telling your 
people.” 

“I am certainly not going to tell them.” He be¬ 
gan to explain the financial arrangements that were 
in such promising progress at the moment. He 
didn’t like to say that they were conditional upon 
his marrying someone of whom his parents could 
thoroughly approve. But she brushed aside the at¬ 
tempted explanation. 

“We’re not dependent on them. We can per¬ 
fectly well live on what we’ve got between us. I 
daresay you’ll have to do without luxuries. But 
we shall have the necessities of life. Lots of people 
live on far less.” Her voice was sharp with decision. 

“Well, my darling, I can tell you one thing. If 
you do write to them, you’ll never see me again.” 
His voice was hard too. 

She flinched at the threat. He saw his advantage, 
and followed it up. 

“If you’d only be patient and wait a bit. Things 
are sure to pan out all right in time. A little pa¬ 
tience, and we shan’t lose anything.” 

“Your mother used to be fond of me. I can 
hardly think she’d mind as much as all that!” 

He stared at her. 

“Mind? You don’t know her! She’d simply 
hate to think I’d married a Catholic—even an eman¬ 
cipated one!” 

“Emancipated?” The word struck her like a 
whip. 

“I mean—you’ve let it rather go by the board, 
haven’t you, this precious religion of yours?” 


20 6 


VIOLA HUDSON 


She thought bitterly: “Yes—I deserve that he 
should think that. But he needn’t have said it.” 

“Don’t let’s quarrel, Viola darling!” 

“Esme—I’ve made up my mind. You must see 
that Percival ought to know everything. People 
will think it isn’t all right. You see what he 
says about ceremonies—that aren’t—that aren’t 
valid. . . 

As she spoke she looked straight at Esme. His 
face was ghastly pale, he averted his eyes so as not 
to meet hers. 

“You must see that I couldn’t have people think¬ 
ing it wasn’t all right. . . 

Esme had risen from his chair. His face was 
white and hard; his green eyes blazed with passion. 

“Well, then, it isn’t all right!” he exclaimed, 
angrily. 

Viola had risen too, and now she put out her 
hand and clutched the rim of a polished table that 
stood near her. As yet the full significance of his 
words had hardly penetrated across her dazed 
senses. She felt only as if she had received a blow 
that for the moment had deprived her of full con¬ 
sciousness. 

“Since you’ve forced my hand I’d better tell you 
the truth. Your brother bit the nail on the head. 
It isn’t all right!” 

“How do you mean ... it isn’t all right?” she 
said. She felt anew the old sinking sensation at 
her heart. 

“My dear child, you’re not my wife at all. Why, 
I didn’t think that ceremony would have deceived a 
baby! I meant to make it all square afterward, 
when things had quieted down a bit at Ardlesham, 
but you’ve pushed me into a corner, with this threat 
of disclosure.” 

Her first feeling was not one of shame nor even 
of sorrow. It was a fierce hatred of this man whom 


VIOLA HUDSON 


207 

once she had loved, dispossessing that love. She 
understood now why people sometimes in the heat 
of passion slew those they had loved. 

“Percival will make you marry me,” she said. 

“Oh, no, he won’t,” said Esme. 

He wondered then if he had put himself within 
reach of the law by going through a false ceremony 
of marriage with a minor. The word conspiracy, 
as he knew, covered a very large area of misde¬ 
meanors. He underwent a moment of acute discom¬ 
fiture. 

Then he went up to her with his bland smile. 

“Look here, Viola darling, I did mean to marry 
you. I loved you, and I felt I must win you if not 
by fair means then by foul. I didn’t want to quarrel 
with my father, and I suppose I ought to have 
waited. I’ve behaved like a blackguard, and now 
I’ve made you hate me. But it isn’t any use your 
writing to my people. We are not married—that 
was a sham ceremony, with a sham parson.” 

She was silent. 

“And of course if Percival insists, I’m ready to 

pay— 1 ” 

“Pay? Do you think I’d touch your money?” 
She was angry, but behind her anger blind terror 
reigned. She had the sense of having been caught 
in a cruel trap whose teeth would go on tearing 
and tearing at her flesh. 

And Esme would depart, lightly and carelessly 
as ever, leaving her to her doom. . . . 

She still felt as if she were dreaming. One of 
those hideous nightmares when you found yourself 
alone in a long passage with all the doors and win¬ 
dows tightly shut and locked, so that there was no 
means of egress. No way of escape . . . and some¬ 
thing, menacing and formless and terrible, pursuing 
you to your hurt . . . 

“You needn’t be afraid,” she said; “I won’t tell 


208 


VIOLA HUDSON 


your real name to Percival. I think I should be 
ashamed for him to know it.” 

His look of relief increased her contempt. 

When she gazed at Esme now, in the light of her 
new and profound knowledge of his character, as of 
a man who had remorselessly tricked and duped her, 
relying on her old quality of silence, she wondered 
how she could ever have loved him. Boy and man, 
he had ever been false, deceitful and faithless. 
That rooted characteristic of egoism had hardened, 
as determined egoism alone can harden, all his finer 
sensibilities. All of a sudden she became aware of 
how worthless was this man for whom she had sacri¬ 
ficed so much. And paradoxically this thought 
brought with it another—a sense of relief that she 
was not his wife and did not belong to him. 

“Will you go away now, please, Mr. Craye?” 
She called him by that name for the first time in her 
life. Ever since she had known him he had been 
Esme to her. “I think we can have nothing else to 
say to each other.” 

She wa6 beautiful in that proud queenly indigna¬ 
tion of hers. He understood that she had nothing 
but contempt for him now, contempt and a cold re¬ 
pulsion that one sometimes feels for a small and 
rather horrible little insect. In that moment he real¬ 
ized the essential worth and nobility of the woman 
he was casting so lightly away. If she w r ould only 
wait—even now it wasn’t too late to arrange things 
... he was passing through a difficult moment 
. . . but things were bound to straighten out . . . 
if she would only wait. Tie looked at her wistfully. 
He seemed to have the dreadful power of divining 
the process that was at work within her mind, disin¬ 
tegrating thread by thread the woof of their brief 
shared life and love. 

He moved a step nearer. “Oh, we’re not going 


VIOLA HUDSON 209 

to part like this, my darling,” he said. But the gay 
charm of his smile was lost upon her. 

“I mean what I say. Go at once!” 

She went to the door and opened it for him. He 
tried to take her hand, but she drew it sharply 
away, shrinking from even this slight conventional 
contact. 

“Will you go, Mr. Craye? Do you wish me to 
call for help?” 

She was splendid in her outraged dignity. 

“Viola—Viola—I can’t go away like this . . 

He was pleading now. 

Her face was inexorable. He stumbled past her; 
she heard him go downstairs and into the hall. 
There was something ignominious about his exit, just 
as if he had been the one to be duped and fooled. 
She followed him, and as he went out of the front 
door she was there to close it after him. The sound 
echoing through the house held a peculiar signifi¬ 
cance for them both. It was final, like the sounding 
of a knell when the soul has departed. 

She stood there in the hall, clenching her hands. 

“It’s ended—utterly ended,” she said, aloud. 

She went into the little study at the back of the 
dining-room and sank upon the sofa. She shivered 
violently, and for a moment the old sensation of 
physical faintness mastered her. She groped her way 
into the dining-room and drank some water that 
was on the sideboard. It revived her. She flung 
herself upon the sofa and leaning back closed her 
eyes. 

“It’s ended—utterly ended . . .” But the re¬ 
peated words failed to reassure her. Was anything 
indeed ever ended? Did not every sin hold its in¬ 
eluctable sequence, the harvest, the wages, the ex¬ 
piation, the sentence one could not escape? It was 
like a little trickle of some dark noisome fluid flow- 


210 


VIOLA HUDSON 


ing through all the beautiful golden days of life, 
smudging and staining them. 

Ended? It had only just begun. Still she tried 
to reassure herself. 

“It is ended. No one need ever know except 
Percival.” 

She went up to her room. 


CHAPTER XX 

T HE days passed monotonously. The weather 
in London was hot and sultry with that pecul¬ 
iar airlessness which makes August such a trying 
month there. Viola flagged a little under the stress 
and strain of those solitary days. She was very 
quiet, moving like one in a dream, scarcely able to 
realize her own misfortune, bearing it with a kind 
of dumb apathetic fortitude that gave place at times 
to fits of unaccountable terror. 

She wrote a letter to Percival entreating him and 
Cecily not to tell anyone of her marriage. She 
would explain when she saw them why it was neces¬ 
sary at present not to divulge it. She extracted a 
promise of like secrecy from Rebecca. 

She had been alone a week when one afternoon 
Esme was announced. She had so little feared or 
hoped for a visit from him that she had not even 
thought it worth while to tell Rebecca that if he 
called she would not be at home. She looked up in 
anger and astonishment when his name was an¬ 
nounced. She had felt absolutely confident that he 
had gone away forever, that he would never dare 
approach her again. 

Her heart beat a little more quickly. Something 
of her old feeling for him came back to her. She 
felt then that if she had really been his wife she 


VIOLA HUDSON 211 

would have loved him always, faithfully, forgivingly. 
She could have helped him. Hers was the stronger 
character of the two. And her love for him was 
not dead. Seeing him thus suddenly and unexpect¬ 
edly she was forced to realize this. She wanted ach¬ 
ingly to feel his kiss once more. She had been so 
alone—it was terrible, this solitude, peopled only 
with the ghost of Esme’s love, with the memories 
of their brief life together. 

He came forward quietly and took her hand. 

“It’s awfully good of you to see me, Viola,” he 
said. He spoke in a grave hushed voice. 

She knew by the manner in which he spoke, that 
he had returned in a penitent mood. Perhaps he 
had some petition to make; perhaps he had only 
come, actuated by an egoistic impulse, to ascertain 
whether he could really rely upon her silence, her 
promise not to reveal his identity. 

She looked fragile, he thought, in that white dress 
of hers. It was as if her physical health had suffered 
from the shock to which he had so brutally exposed 
her. Her face was white and thin, under the closely- 
brushed dark hair. 

“Won’t you sit down?” she said. 

He sat down. It was not easy to reveal the ob¬ 
ject of his visit to this cold silent woman who looked 
at him with such strange eyes. He blurted out the 
truth at last without preliminary. 

“I’ve told my people I want to marry you—that 
I shall never marry anyone else,” he said. “And 
as I’m going away, and I may see active service, 
they have given in. I didn’t say anything about 
our . . . supposed marriage. ... I just told 
them we were engaged—that we loved each other. 
I needn’t tell you all the details, Viola; some of 
them were very unpleasant. But the long and the 
short of it is that they’ll give their consent and 


212 VIOLA HUDSON 

make it possible for us to marry on one condi¬ 
tion . . .” 

“What condition, Esme?” she said. She leaned 
forward and now a distinct gleam of relief, even of 
happiness, illuminated the rigidity of her face. 

“Well, for one thing they won’t hear of a Catho¬ 
lic ceremony, and they insist, too, that any children 
we may have, are to be brought up as Protestants. 
I said I didn’t think you’d have any objection to 
that. You were ready to marry me before on those 
conditions, although they were never categorically 
specified.” 

Viola sat there, very still, her hands folded in her 
lap. Her face wore again its meditative, brooding 
look. 

She had not expected this, perhaps it was the last 
thing she had expected. It was like the impossible 
happening. Since her parting with Esme, a parting 
she had believed to be final, she had turned her 
thoughts from time to time to the thought of that 
confession she would have to make in order to re¬ 
gain the spiritual things she had forfeited. She 
had felt the most bitter sorrow for her past dis¬ 
obedience, a contrition that was a kind of natural 
reaction. She had thought that perhaps to-morrow 
if she felt well enough she would go and make her 
confession to an old and wise priest whom she had 
known for many years. She was preparing to make 
a full and careful revelation of guilt. For, although 
she was very young and had been cruelly duped, she 
was yet deeply conscious of guilt. She had deliber¬ 
ately disobeyed the laws of her Church, cutting her¬ 
self off from the consolations of its Sacraments. 
There had been days when she had felt like a pariah, 
an outcast, almost a leper. And even in her happi¬ 
ness, the human happiness of her life with Esme, 
she had suffered. She had never felt at ease. She 
dared not pray. Her soul might not seek the divine 


VIOLA HUDSON 


213 


nourishment without which it must surely perish. 
She had fallen from grace. This was why in the 
first instance she had felt an almost sick relief when 
she learned that she was not and had never been 
Esme Craye’s wife. The path was open—she could 
go back . . . Father, I have sinned against heaven 
and before Thee . . . Oh, happy moment when 
the prodigal is received back into favor, and regains 
the forfeited friendship of Christ! . . . She had let 
her thoughts dwell persistently upon this aspect of 
the case, trying to cling to the inevitable gain rather 
than to lament the greatness of her loss. 

And now Esme had returned, with temptation on 
his lips. He would marry her, and of his love for 
her there seemed to be now no question. When it 
was too late he had risked his parents’ anger by re¬ 
vealing that love. He could not let her go without 
an effort. He had duped her, wronged her, fooled 
her, but he was prepared to make amends. And 
for all this he asked a price. . . . 

For the happiness of restored honor in becoming 
Esme’s wife, recognized, acknowledged, she must 
barter the birthright, the spiritual heritage of her 
children. Her children . . . Her heart almost 
stopped at the word. 

Ignorant as she was, she suddenly realized as if 
by some subtle instinct of clairvoyance the meaning 
of that physical malaise which had first definitely 
declared itself when she fainted at Boulogne, soon 
after hearing the news of Esme’s recall. Yes, it 
meant just that, that some day there would be a 
child. Had she not always felt that the conse¬ 
quences of her sin would affect not only her own 
life but perhaps another life, even countless lives 
stretching far down into the years? Now she was 
certain of it. There would be a child, and on be¬ 
half of that child she would have to make, either 
in one sense or another, a great refusal. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


214 

Had Esme guessed anything? Was that why 
he had suddenly pressed so urgently for his parents’ 
permission? Was it because he loved her too well 
to bring shame and disgrace upon her? Or had he 
come now simply because he had in these few days 
sensed what life would be like apart from her and 
found himself unable to bear it? 

She put this questioning aside. What she had to 
decide was a matter that hardly now seemed to con¬ 
cern either herself or Esme. It concerned that life 
that some day should stir within her. She followed 
this train of thought with deadly logic. If she re¬ 
fused to marry Esme her child would be illegitimate. 
It would be nameless. A stigma of shame would 
forever be attached to it. It was impossible always 
to hide such a thing as that, especially in the case of 
a boy. Schools and colleges demanded certificates 
of birth. She compared this dismal vision with the 
brilliant future of Esme Craye’s eldest son, the child 
of such dazzling prospects, who one day would be 
Lord Bethnell, heir to an immense fortune, to a title, 
to vast property. That steady storing-up of stocks 
and shares, gold and land and houses, due to the 
assiduous industry, the close economy of the first 
Lord Bethnell, would pass to that child, in all human 
probability, if she consented to marry Esme now. 

It was indeed for this child and on behalf of it, 
that the choice must be made. She must rob it 
either of its spiritual or its temporal inheritance. 
She looked at Esme, wondering if he guessed any¬ 
thing of that conflict into which the subtle dilemma 
had inexorably plunged her. 

Perhaps if she had not yielded that first time to 
his refusal to be married in a Catholic church, if she 
had not tasted that spiritual isolation, that sense 
of being shut out from life and light, of wandering 
and feeding on the unsatisfying husks, she might 
have consented to marry him now on the conditions 


VIOLA HUDSON 


215 

laid down. She would perhaps have salved her con¬ 
science with the consoling thought that her influence 
oyer Esme was so great that in time she would win 
him to the faith, and thus secure the faith of her 
children. But she had learned many things about 
Esme in the course of their brief life together. It 
had left her absolutely without illusions. Her old 
worship was dead. She was not without love for 
him, but she realized to the full how hard, egoistic, 
and faithless he was. She could never influence him, 
and if she married him it would mean that all their 
children would be brought up as Protestants. 

And then the other side of the picture that rose 
before her again and again, lurid and terrible, and 
inevitable in its sure materialization! . . . That go¬ 
ing out into the wilderness, and bringing her child 
secretly into the world with all the attendant suffer¬ 
ing. . . . Hiding the knowledge of its shame from 
it as long as possible. Living somewhere where her 
story was not known, shrinking always from the 
careless inquisitive question, the discerning eye. 
Always, always afraid of discovery. . . . And then 
later on when the child grew up and was able to 
understand, the inevitable moment of revelation. 
Telling it the truth about her own cruel dilemma, 
showing it just what it had gained, and how little 
really it had lost . . . begging for its forgiveness, 
and entreating it to tell her with kisses of love that 
she had been amply justified in her decision. . . . 

For in these past weeks Viola had learned, dur¬ 
ing her arbitrary separation from it, the true signifi¬ 
cance and worth of the Catholic Faith. Hitherto 
she had taken it rather for granted as an essential 
and integral part of her daily life, practicing her re¬ 
ligion faithfully, but remaining in a sense unawak¬ 
ened, like a person who has never realized how deep 
his love has been until confronted by the separation 


21 6 


VIOLA HUDSON 


imposed by death. Now she saw the Catholic Faith 
in its true light, as the one thing needful. Nothing 
else mattered. No other loss or separation or suffer¬ 
ing or shame. And if she brought up her child with 
this ideal always before its young vision, it would 
surely in the end not only forgive her but thank her 
for the sacrifice she had made, and assure her that 
she had been a thousand, thousand times justified 
in her choice. 

She could not retrieve that first false step, but 
she could at least show how sincere was her con¬ 
trition. She couldn’t wipe away the unsightly thing 
from her past life, it would be there always to re¬ 
mind her that once she had fallen away, through 
human love, from the grace of God, and that only 
by His infinite Mercy she had not been suffered to 
die in a state of sin, cut off from the consolations 
of the Church. 

And now another life was involved, a life inter¬ 
woven inextricably with her own. She could not 
brush aside responsibility in regard to that life. 
She couldn’t tell herself: “Perhaps we shall never 
have children,’’ to justify herself in bartering their 
spiritual heritage now. She was looking at life from 
an entirely new angle. Already she was aware of 
something of the immense responsibility of mater¬ 
nity. It was as if through her child she could see 
God more clearly. 

“We can be married immediately,” Esme con¬ 
tinued, wondering a little at her long silence. “I 
have to start for India at the end of next week, and 
that gives us plenty of time. You would of course 
go out with me. And Viola—” 

“Yes?” she said. 

“My mother asked me to say that she hopes you 
will come down to Ardlesham with me this evening 
and spend a few days with us. She wants you to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


217 


know my father. You will come, darling, won’t 
you?” 

His voice was tender and pleading, almost 
humble. It was as if he were praying for her for¬ 
giveness, for the renewal of her love. 

Viola had often longed to go to Ardlesham, to see 
Esme in the midst of his intimate family life, as 
the only son of the house. She had passionately 
wished to be received by his parents. He could 
hardly have offered her a more subtle temptation. 
It even flashed through her mind: “Perhaps I shall 
be able to persuade them to rescind this harsh con¬ 
dition.” 

The sultry airlessness of London was affecting 
her health. Her long solitude, her wakeful miser¬ 
able nights, had made her nervous and dispirited. 
And to be taken away from all this, to go to Ardle¬ 
sham, to be kindly welcomed and received by Esme’s 
parents as his beloved fiancee, offered a prospect that 
was incredibly alluring. 

Then she thought of the alternative again—the 
going out into the wilderness . . . the loneliness 
. . . the shame . . . the suffering. Could Al¬ 
mighty God demand such a tremendous sacrifice 
from her? . . . 


“I can’t come—I can’t marry you—she said, 
abruptly. 

Esme gazed at her in astonishment. 

“But of course you’re going to marry me, my 
darling child. Eve taken infinite trouble to get it all 
settled, to make your path easy. You can’t go back 
on me now.” He rose and came toward her, and 
his voice was shaken with emotion. “I love you— 
I’ve learned in this past week—ever since we parted 
—that I can’t live without you. Yes, it has been 
hell, all these days at Ardlesham—this feeling that 
perhaps I should never see you again.” 


218 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“What you ask is impossible.” 

“Impossible?” 

She looked at him steadily. 

“I refuse to rob my child of its birthright.” 

“What do you mean?” The color rushed to his 
face. What could she mean? 

“You remember the day I fainted in Boulogne? 
Since then I have thought—there might be a child. 
That child must be a Catholic.” 

“But don’t you see—if that’s true—we must be 
married without delay? Why, there’s all the more 
reason . . . Viola—you don’t know what you’re 
saying—you’re too young to judge . . . Religion 
doesn’t matter. It’ll be a Christian—we Protes¬ 
tants aren’t quite heathens, you know! You can’t 
be allowed to throw away your good name just for a 
caprice. Why, what do you think would become 
of you? A woman with an illegitimate child! Why, 
it’s unthinkable. You must be mad . . . you can’t 
have thought it out ...” 

“I have thought it out. I must rob my child in 
one of two ways. And I choose this way.” 

He flung himself impetuously on his knees at her 
feet, and clasped both her hands in his. 

“Viola—Viola—you can’t . . . when I love you 
so ... You must marry me—no one need ever 
know. And I love you. . . .” 

“I can only marry you if you’ll let me bring up 
my children in my own Faith. You must make that 
promise.” 

“Ah, that’s the one thing they’ll never agree to. 
It’s the one point about which they’re inexorable.” 

“Even if you were to tell them the truth?” 

“That would make matters ten times worse. And 
it’s an ugly story—I’d rather they didn’t know. 
Viola, when you consented to marry me before, you 
were ready to waive the Catholic ceremony—the 
question of dispensation—the promises. Why can’t 


VIOLA HUDSON 


219 

you do without them now, when it’s all important 
both for your own and the child’s sake that we 
should be married as soon as possible?” 

“Because I understand better now. And I feel 
a great responsiblity toward my child.” 

“Your child won’t thank you for depriving it of 
its name!” 

“My child will understand.” 

He could hardly believe that she was the same 
Viola, so changed was she from the happy girl he 
had pretended to marry a few weeks before. So 
innocent—so ignorant—it had been so pitifully easy 
to dupe her, that in his secret shame he had almost 
confessed to her the vileness of his plot. She was 
a woman now; she had no illusions; she knew that 
she had been tricked and duped by a man who was 
unscrupulous, untrustworthy and faithless. She 
would not accept the amends he offered her. She 
was determined to give her child something that with 
all his prospective wealth he could never bestow 
upon it. 

In her beauty, her cold courage, her willingness 
to face shame and suffering for an ideal, he saw 
with a sense of desperate eternal loss the nobility 
of the woman he had loved to their mutual hurt. 

She neither asked nor would she accept reparation 
at his hands. He was nothing to her now. All her 
thoughts, her hopes, even her love, were concen¬ 
trated upon this unborn child. She was content to 
let him go. But he couldn’t believe that she real¬ 
ized what her life would be. The world has its own 
codes, and in that world there is little place for the 
unwedded woman with her illegitimate child. And 
to choose this path of ostracism when she might 
have been his wife! The folly of it—the criminal 
folly of it. . . . 

She listened in silence to his continued pleading. 


220 VIOLA HUDSON 

Her face never changed in its pale, calm immovabil¬ 
ity. She did not speak. She must have heard him, 
but she made no sign. He rose at last, and there 
were tears in his eyes as he stood and gazed at her. 

“Viola—my love—my wife . . . you don’t know 
what you’re doing, d hat life—you’ll never bear it. 
The punishment will fall on you—” 

Memory mockingly flashed before him a picture 
from the old Ardlesham days when he had led Viola 
to her home, a bruised bleeding child. He could see 
Miss Malleson, a tall figure, a veritable incarnation 
of destiny, waiting for them, watching their slow 
progress toward the gate. And he could hear her 
grim voice saying: Viola knows the consequences of 
disobedience . . . He could remember his own 
little thrill of horror and shame. Viola had never 
tried to exonerate herself by blaming him, the leader 
in all those primrose paths that spelt ultimate dis¬ 
aster. And she would not try to exonerate herself 
now by laying the blame on him. She accepted her 
own share of guilt and she was ready, as ever, to 
expiate it in silence. 

She rose too. 

“Will you go now, please, Esme? I don’t think 
I can bear any more. And it’s no use—my mind is 
made up. You must tell Lord Bethnell that my 
religion is more to me than anything else in the 
world, and that I’m not prepared to forego it on 
behalf of my . . . child . . .” 

Esme put out his hand. But she did not take it. 
As he moved toward the door her grave eyes fol¬ 
lowed him. He paused as he reached the threshold. 

“You’ll be sorry for this, you know. You’re too 
young to make such a tremendous decision off your 
own bat. But if you change your mind—” 

“I shall not change my mind.” 

The door closed after him. . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


221 , 


CHAPTER XXI 



I OLA half dreaded and half looked forward 


» to Percival’s return from Dawlish. He gen¬ 
erally came back to London a few days before the 
rest of his family, leaving Cecily to follow with the 
children whenever it should please her. And this 
year he arranged to return home a little earlier 
than usual. He wasn’t satisfied with the meager and 
mystifying account Viola had given him of her 
secret marriage. He was anxious to see his sister, 
and to hear more details. Also, he was wise enough 
to perceive that conversations of such a highly con¬ 
fidential nature were best held in the absence of 
his wife. 

Percival was very fond of Viola; he admired her 
immensely, and wished to see her happily married. 
He was aware that she didn’t fit well into her pres¬ 
ent position in his house, and he disliked to think 
that Cecily compelled her to spend so many hours 
daily in teaching his children. In the future he 
meant to change all that. The children were old 
enough to go to school. And if Cecily still opposed 
that plan she must engage a regular governess for 
them. 

Viola’s marriage had to a certain extent changed 
and modified her position in his household. To be¬ 
gin with, she would now be quite independent; her 
small fortune was her own from the day of her mar¬ 
riage. There would be a certain amount of inevi¬ 
table business to be accomplished, and the sooner 
it was done the better. But the facts in themselves 
were sufficiently alarming. Here was Viola, a mar¬ 
ried woman, who had consented, most rashly as it 
seemed to him, to a clandestine marriage, living 
once more in the home of her girlhood, parted from 


222 VIOLA HUDSON 

, ¥ 4 

her husband after a few weeks. The matter re¬ 
quired explanation. 

“There’s something jolly fishy about it,” thought 
Percival, as the Plymouth express whirled him Lon- 
donward. 

Viola should have asked his advice. He had 
always been on friendly terms with her. There was 
no reason in the world for her to have the slightest 
fear of him. But she might have told him. After 
all, as her brother he was one of her natural guard¬ 
ians till she should come of age. He had accepted 
the responsibilities of a guardian when he had asked 
her to come and live with him and his wife. And he 
was the only one of her brothers now in England. 
George was stationed at the Cape, and Matthew 
was still in Ceylon. They never troubled their heads 
about her, didn’t care if she were married or not. 

He arrived in London toward the close of a 
golden day in mid-September. The house had been 
swept and garnished, and in every room the mirrors 
and pictures had been released from their news¬ 
paper coverings. The floors and furniture were 
bright with assiduous polishing. Rebecca and Jinny 
had worked hard, and sometimes Mrs. Mansfield 
had come languidly in and helped them to wash the 
china and replace it on the shelves of the Chippen¬ 
dale cabinet, or had accomplished other little tasks 
that imposed no strain upon her strength. 

Viola was in the drawing-room when Percival 
came in. The fire was lit—a small wood fire which 
gave an aspect of cheerfulness—and before her was 
the tea-table, whence proceeded the faint hissing 
sound of a kettle. It was a comfortable sound in the 
ears of a man who had just arrived from a long 
journey. 

Percival was slightly stout and rather red in the 
face. He bore little resemblance to his lovely sister. 
His fair hair was growing thin on the top, and his 


VIOLA HUDSON 


223 

slightly prominent blue eyes were surrounded by 
wrinkles that gave them a humorous expression. 
His plump shaven cheeks were freshly colored. He 
looked at once old and very new. 

Viola wore a white dress. His first impression 
was that this attire accentuated the pallor of her 
complexion. She was in his opinion quite extraordi¬ 
narily changed. She looked more than her years. 
It seemed as if all the joy, the happiness, of youth 
had gone out of her face, leaving it with that cold, 
reticent look, secret, a trifle bitter. 

“Well, Percival,” she said. She went forward 
and kissed him. 

“Well, my dear Vi! It’s nice finding you here. 
I generally come back to an empty house. Cecily 
and the kiddies are very happy at Dawlish, and I 
think they’ll stay as long as the weather holds.” 

“Are they all well?” 

“Yes. Margery’s awfully fit—swims like a fish.” 
He was proud of his little daughter, though aware 
of her faults and limitations. “And Lionel’s learn¬ 
ing, too. Cecily sent her love. How are you, Vi, 
my dear?” 

He turned his blue, prominent eyes upon her with 
a sudden disconcerting scrutiny. But her face re¬ 
mained pale, immobile. It held, he thought, the im¬ 
press of a tragic experience simply accepted. There 
was something almost terrible about that simple, un¬ 
spoilt yet disillusioned expression which Percival— 
usually far from subtle in his criticisms—could not 
but perceive. 

“I’m quite well, thank you, Percival. A little 
tired.” 

She could not tell him of those attacks of faint¬ 
ness increasing now in frequency. He would only 
question her closely, and insist upon her seeing a 
doctor. Where health was concerned he was oddly 
fussy. 


224 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“It’s been so sultry—so airless—in London this 
year,” she added. 

“Yes—it was pretty muggy, too, in Devonshire.” 

She made tea and gave him a cup. Watching her 
with a new interest, he observed that she drank 
several cups of very strong tea as if she were a-thirst 
for the stimulant it offered. But she ate nothing. 
She was very thin—her hands and wrists were 
almost transparent-looking. 

Percival ate and drank in silence. He was half 
afraid to question her. She seemed such a stranger. 
And he could see that in her extreme quietude she 
was unhappy, ill at ease, nervous perhaps of his 
inevitable inquiries. 

“Where’s your husband, Vi?” he blurted out at 
last, feeling it was better to come to the point. 

Viola glanced at him, as if measuring his powers 
of tolerant acceptance. He was typical of his world, 
clever at his work, alert, astute, conventional. In¬ 
capable, too, of harming man or woman. She felt 
though that she didn’t really know him except in 
quite a superficial manner, as a kindly, good-humored 
person, oddly attached to his dull, malicious little 
wife and even finding much to admire in his obtuse 
offspring. She was always afraid to plumb depths, 
to ascertain the precise measure of another person’s 
credulity, endurance, or tolerance. Still, the truth 
was necessary—as much of the truth as she was free 
to disclose. Not that he could help her. No one 
could help her. She was alone, in a strange suffering 
solitude whose walls were slowly closing about her. 

“I—I haven’t got a husband, Percival,” she said, 
simply. 

She looked straight at him as she spoke. Her 
gaze w r as as unfaltering as her voice. 

Percival’s red face became almost purple. “But, 
my dear Vi—you told us you were married!” 

“Well, I thought I was. But you remember what 



VIOLA HUDSON 


you said in your letter about those secret ceremonies 
being sometimes not valid? It proves not to have 
been valid.” 

She seemed to him perfectly unconscious of the 
dire significance of her statement, so simple was her 
manner of uttering it. 

Percival’s face indicated the mingled surprise and 
horror which her words had produced upon him. 

“All the time we were on our honeymoon I be¬ 
lieved that we were married. Protestant ceremonies 
are all strange to me, so I didn’t find anything odd 
about this one. But when we got back to London 
I urged him to write and tell his people—I even 
threatened to tell them myself . . . and it was then 
he told me the ceremony wasn’t a legal one.” 

“Who is this d—d blackguard?” said Percival, 
growing still more purple with suppressed rage and 
anger. 

“I can’t tell you his name. Besides, it doesn’t 
matter—it can’t make any difference.” 

“But it makes all the difference in the world! I 
shall take proceedings at once—you’re a minor— 
he’ll be forced to marry you—” 

A strong shiver passed over her. 

“But, Percival—I wouldn’t marry him for all the 
world!” 

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave it at that. I’m 
your trustee—your brother—it’s my duty to safe¬ 
guard your interests. I must take steps—your 
honor’s at stake.” 

“You can’t do anything,” she said, in a tone of 
indescribable hopelessness. It was the first time she 
had displayed any emotion at all. 

“You must tell me his name—we mustn’t lose any 
time—” 

“You shall never know his name,” said Viola, 
with singular determination. “I only want you to 
give me my money, or as much of it as you can. I’ll 


226 


VIOLA HUDSON 


go abroad—I shan’t worry you. If I stayed here 
people would only annoy you with questions. I shall 
go on calling myself Mrs. Mansfield, and people 
will only think I’ve married someone you didn’t 
approve of.” 

“But you’ve done nothing wrong! You’ve been 
victimized by a bad man. It’s only right that you 
should be publicly vindicated. It is a criminal 
offense—a mock ceremony of marriage with a 
minor! 

“I was in the wrong, Percival. I married without 
the sanction or permission of my Church. I never 
tried to get a dispensation because he always refused 
to consider a Catholic ceremony. I’ve done wrong, 
and if I’m punished it is just what I deserve. I did 
it all deliberately. But I thought because I loved 
him—Rowland Mansfield—so much, that perhaps 
God wouldn’t punish me.” 

“I am not thinking of your Church. I’m thinking 
of the way that you—a mere child, without any 
experience of the world—have been duped and 
hoaxed. You were too young to know what you 
were doing—” 

“I did know that as a Catholic I was doing 
wrong,” she persisted, obstinately. “At one time 
that thought almost stopped me.” 

“And you were brought up so carefully. I used 
to think Aunt Hope was severe, but at least I knew 
she was conscientious.” 

“Yes,” assented Viola, wearily. 

“Well, you must give me the name of this scoun¬ 
drel. He must be exposed. I daresay the threat of 
exposure will bring him to his senses, and induce him 
to marry you.” 

“I won’t marry him. Understand that once and 
for all. And you can’t expose him without expos¬ 
ing me.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


227 

“But, my dear Vi—you were a victim. The world 
can’t possibly blame you.” 

“Ah, but I blame myself ...” 

“You must give me his name and let me deal with 
him.” 

“There’s nothing you can do. And, Percival—it’s 
no use your trying to find out. He isn’t in England. 
He has gone abroad. He did come here before he 
went away, and begged me to marry him.” 

“He begged you to marry him? Then why on 
earth—?” 

“His conditions were too hard.” 

“Conditions? But you should have married him 
no matter how hard the conditions were.” 

“That’s just what I couldn’t do.” 

“And why not?” 

“He would only marry me on condition that my 
child should be brought up a Protestant.” 

“Your child?” 

“Yes, Percival, my child ...” 

There was a long silence. Percival walked rest¬ 
lessly up and down the room. Viola must be mad. 
It was useless to try to help her, for she rejected all 
help. If the man had offered to repair the injury 
and marry her legally, and she had refused, there 
was nothing left for him to do. 

“I shall insist upon your marrying him. You 
shan’t have your money unless you do.” 

“Oh, well, I can work,” she said, wearily. 

“Work? What can you do?” 

“Teach,” said Viola. 

“But, my dear girl, who is going to employ you?” 

He gazed at her, aghast at her obstinacy. 

“If you won’t think of yourself, for Heaven’s 
sake think of your child. You ought to put yourself 
and your religious scruples on one side. At least 
you could have gone through the form of marriage 
with this Mansfield in order to legitimatize it.” 


228 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“I am thinking of my child. I am not going to de¬ 
prive it of its spiritual heritage. It was this very 
knowledge that made me decide as I did. Ferci- 
val—” she rose and came toward him. .“I’m sorry— 
I’m very sorry. I feel as if I’d disgraced our name. 
But I’ll go abroad. The few people who think I’m 
married needn’t ever know that I’m not. I should 
like to go away very soon ...” 

“I simply can’t have you wandering about the con¬ 
tinent alone. Besides, this man must contribute to 
your support.” 

“Never!” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve told him I 
will never touch a penny of his money.” 

Everywhere he was confronted by this reckless 
burning of boats. 

“Viola—of course you shall have your money, as 
much as you can have until you come of age. I’ll 
pay it into the bank to-morrow and then every quar¬ 
ter. You can draw it as you choose. You mustn’t 
starve.” 

“Thank you, Percival. I knew you’d be kind. 
And you can’t do anything more for me. I’m a 
scapegoat. I must go out into the wilderness.” She 
smiled—he thought it was the saddest thing he had 
ever seen. 

Then she went out of the room, leaving him to 
meditate upon the cruel tangle which she refused so 
resolutely to unravel. 

Viola spent some miserable days in South Ken¬ 
sington with her brother. He kept his word and 
saw that a sum of money was paid into her account, 
and being really generous he added a certain amount 
of his own to it. He feared if she did fulfill her 
threat of going abroad, that she might not at first 
know how to manage her affairs prudently. But his 
legal mind declined to leave it at that, and whenever 
he saw her, he returned to the attack with unabated 


VIOLA HUDSON 


229 

vigor. He would demand her full confidence; he 
repeatedly urged her to give him the name of this 
man who had so deceived and duped her. But Viola 
was perfectly consistent in her reticence. She real¬ 
ized, however, for the first time, that Percival was 
a man of indomitable secret obstinacy. Beneath all 
their superficial dissimilarity they had a certain like¬ 
ness of disposition. It was evident to Viola that he 
and Cecily could never have disagreed on any matter 
of fundamental importance, or she could not have 
continued to rule him so easily after eight years of 
matrimony. 

The day of Cecily’s return approached. October 
had set in, with mild, golden, balmy days. The 
weather was delicious, sunny with blue skies, and a 
crisp autumn nip in the air, stealing out of the early 
morning mists. 

“It is certainly very dreadful about Viola,” Cecily 
wrote, for Percival had not liked to keep her alto¬ 
gether in the dark as to the true state of affairs. 
“She can count on me to say nothing, for I feel the 
disgrace of it all far more than she can possibly do. 
Fortunately we have never mentioned her marriage, 
and it will be quite easy to go on saying nothing at 
all about it. I was always against her going to 
Venice. I felt that a life of pleasure was the worst 
possible thing for a girl of that type. I hope she 
will begin to teach the children seriously now.” 

Percival tried to soften this scheme. “Cecily 
hopes you’ll give the children their lessons again, 
when they come back. But I expect you’d rather 
not.” 

Viola made no answer. Afterward he remem¬ 
bered that she looked at him strangely. At the time 
he thought little of it. She was often silent now and 
nervous and inclined to start if one spoke to her 
suddenly. 

Viola went up to her room and rang the bell. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


230 

Rebecca soon afterward appeared. Since Viola’s 
return she had shown an increase of dog-like devo¬ 
tion, as if she suspected that things were not going 
well with her. 

“Rebecca, bring both my trunks, please. I shall 
be going away early to-morrow. Don’t say anything 
to Mr. Hudson or to the servants. Bring the hat- 
box, too.” 

Rebecca’s prim mouth dropped apart. “Beg par¬ 
don, ma’am, but were you intending to go alone?” 

“Yes. But, I tell you this in confidence, I want 
everyone to think I’m going to join Mr. Mansfield. 
It is better they should think that, do you under¬ 
stand?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“But I’ll tell you as a secret that I’m going abroad 
alone.” 

“Must it be abroad, ma’am? I don’t hold with 
them foreign countries where there’s no making out 
what they’re talking about. And I’ve a sister in 
York where you could stay till—nearer the time. 
She lets rooms.” 

Nearer the time? Was it possible that Rebecca 
had discovered her secret? Viola flushed. “No— 
no, I’d rather go abroad.” 

Rebecca looked steadily at Viola. A change came 
over her hard, grim face. Then she said quietly: 
“If that’s the case, ma’am, I will accompany you, if 
you’ll allow me.” 

Even then the prim sententious speech gave Viola 
a wild inclination to laugh. 

“Oh, thank you very much, Rebecca, but I’m 
afraid it’s impossible. I’ve only just enough money 
for one.” 

“I’ve saved a bit, ma’am. And I shall be no 
expense to you in the way of wages,” said Rebecca. 

“I shall leave to-morrow directly Mr. Hudson’s 
gone out. He starts at ten, doesn’t he? I shall take 


VIOLA HUDSON 


231 

the afternoon boat train. You can come to the 
station with me, Rebecca.” She went up to her and 
impulsively kissed her. “I shall never forget your 
kindness.” 

“I hope you won’t be offended, ma’am, but it isn’t 
safe for you to be going about alone. I shall leave 
a note for Mrs. Hudson. Cook and Jinny can 
carry on quite well for a few days, with Kate to help, 
until Mrs. Hudson is suited.” 

“But you’ve been here such years, Rebecca. Ever 
since Aunt Hope died.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You mustn’t give up such a good place for me. 
I shall be very poor, Rebecca.” 

“If you please, ma’am, I’d rather be with you. 
And you’ll want someone later on. It had better 
be me than a stranger.” 

She went out of the room and herself fetched 
Viola’s boxes. Then she went up to her own attic 
to pack. Her letter to Mrs. Eludson was a model of 
regret and respect, but she offered no reason for her 
sudden departure, and the other servants believed 
that she was going away for her annual holiday. It 
was not until some days later, that it was discovered 
she had accompanied Viola in her flight into the 
wilderness. 


END OF BOOK I 


I 



k 


VIOLA HUDSON 

Book II 







VIOLA HUDSON 


Book II 

I 

CHAPTER I 

IV/TATTHEW HUDSON was sitting in the 
l\± veranda of his bungalow, situated upon 
the heights of Kellioya in Ceylon, reading some 
English newspapers which a “tappal” coolie had 
just brought across eight miles of jungle-clad hill 
and dale. 

Hudson was a big raw-boned man, over six feet 
in height and clumsily made, but with immense 
strength in his arms. He had broad shoulders, a 
large head with roughly-hewn features, thick red¬ 
dish hair that was now plentifully sprinkled with 
gray, and a complexion that was tanned to a deep 
yellow brown from constant exposure to a tropical 
sun. The whites of his eyes were also faintly tinged 
with yellow, and the eyes themselves had acquired 
that strained, slightly prominent look which Euro¬ 
pean settlers in lands of fierce suns so frequently 
acquire. 

Living in this remote spot of Ceylon and seeing 
but little of his fellow-men except for his overseers, 
assistants and coolies, he had grown careless about 
his dress. His veranda-made suit of light tussore 
was stained in places; his shoes were old, loose, and 
patched. He was smoking a cigar, and on a table 
by his side stood a long glass of whisky and water 

235 


2 2,6 VIOLA HUDSON 

from which he occasionally sipped a few mouthfuls. 

As he read, he became aware that someone was 
approaching the house. Men who live alone in soli¬ 
tudes often possess an acute sense of hearing, and 
thus it was that Matthew felt certain he had heard 
the padding of naked feet. But he was too lazy to 
get up and look. The mid-day heat was great, even 
here in the hills. The sun shone upon the brilliant 
and lustrous foliage of a group of eucalyptus trees, 
that scented the air with their clean, health-giving, 
aromatic odor. Among the roses and honeysuckle 
that blossomed so luxuriantly, decorating the gabled 
roof of the bungalow, the big blue bees hummed 
their drowsy noonday song. 

The naked feet came nearer, were actually ap¬ 
proaching the veranda, and from the tail of his eye 
Matthew was aware of a squat shadow on the grass. 
Fie looked up and saw a coolie halting there. The 
man wore no clothing except a loin-cloth; his brown 
skin gleamed with perspiration and from a recent 
application of oil. In his slim strength he looked 
like a bronze statue come to life. Upon his white- 
turbaned head he carried a cabin-trunk which he 
now, with swift unaided skill, proceeded to deposit 
on the lowest step. Having done so, he stood in 
front of Matthew and made a profound salaam. 

“Whose box is that?” inquired Hudson, speaking 
in fluent Tamil. 

The coolie produced a slip of paper, which he 
handed respectfully to the big British figure. It 
bore the following legend: 

Mrs. Rowland Mansfield , 

Care of Matthew Hudson, Esquire . 

Kellioya. 

“Nonsense! There’s some mistake. You’ve 


VIOLA HUDSON 


2 37 

come to the wrong bungalow. Probably it’s some¬ 
one for Mr. Keane.” 

Mr. Keane, his nearest neighbor of importance, 
lived some three miles away on an estate called 
Kuduwatte, across the river which gave its name to 
the district—the Kelli-Oya. 

The coolie burst into voluble speech. 

“There is no mistake—the lady and her baby are 
coming from the hotel in Nuwara Eliya. They 
drove down to the Hilgalla Rocks, and are being 
carried across the jungle. They will be here before 
sunset.” 

And he moved slowly away. 

Although Matthew was positive there had been 
some mistake, since never in his life had he known 
anyone of the name of Mansfield, the coolie’s suc¬ 
cinct story made him feel extremely uncomfortable. 
Standing there in the veranda, he shouted “Boy!” 
and an aged Appu, or butler, immediately appeared. 
He had a wrinkled mahogany-colored face beneath 
his neat white turban. He was characterized by a 
doglike devotion to his rough, unsympathetic master 
and would willingly have died for him. 

“Yes, master,” he said, in English. 

“This coolie says there’s a lady coming here— 
she’s on her way. Em sure it’s a mistake, but as she’s 
come from Nuwara Eliya she won’t want to go any 
farther to-day. And there’s . . . there’s a baby. 
You must get two rooms ready.” 

“Yes, master,” replied the old man, and, salaam¬ 
ing respectfully, withdrew without further comment. 

He had been with Matthew for many years, was 
aware of his passionate dislike to offering hospi¬ 
tality, in a land where the European is proverbially 
hospitable; and he was as little able to believe in the 
coming of this strange lady as Matthew himself. 

Presently a second coolie appeared, carrying two 
smaller boxes, one on his head, the other in his hand. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


238 

He presented Matthew with a duplicate of the for¬ 
mer document written in precisely the same careful 
upright hand. Matthew was more mystified than 
ever. The mistake, if mistake it was, had been de¬ 
liberately made. A vague anxiety seized him. He 
looked down at his clothes, and for the first time 
became conscious of their stained and shabby con¬ 
dition. He hadn’t spoken to a white woman for 
how many months—years? This was the first time 
a woman had ever come to stay at his bungalow. 
Very rarely, and only when it was impossible to 
avert it, he had put up a fellow planter, a wandering 
government official, for the night. Mansfield . . . 
Mansfield . . . the name conveyed nothing to him. 
He began to feel seriously perturbed, wondering 
how long she intended to stay, and how soon he 
could possibly get rid of her. A baby, too . . . 
Matthew had all the confirmed bachelor’s dislike to 
and fear of the very young of the human species. 
He supposed that it would cry at night, and prevent 
him from sleeping. There was no getting away from 
a baby, and if you said anything you were regarded 
as a brute. . . . 

The bungalow had plenty of accommodation, 
having been built originally by a rich man with a 
large and increasing family. It was moderately 
well-furnished, possessing most of the essentials, but 
there was no luxury. Matthew was a close man who 
preferred a penurious solitude wherein he could pur¬ 
sue unmolested his growing love of saving. He 
worked very hard, and he accumulated as much as he 
could of the fruits of that labor. And he liked to 
feel that his leisure was his own. A lady and her 
baby . . . Mrs. Rowland Mansfield ... of course 
they had been the victims of a mistake, but it would 
be too late to urge them to retrace their steps to-day. 
They must stay at Kellioya for at least one night. 

Well, she probably wouldn’t be here till nearer 


VIOLA HUDSON 239 

the evening. People always sent on their luggage 
ahead, to give notice of their coming, if they were, 
as in this case, unexpected guests. Mrs. Mans¬ 
field ... a tiresome, fussy woman in all probability, 
who would require milk for the child—there was 
never any milk to spare—and all kinds of things for 
herself. She would have to dine with him—odious 
prospect! He had not sat down to a meal with a 
woman for many, many years. He wondered what 
he could possibly talk to her about. She must be 
young—fairly young in any case—since there was a 
baby. He must give orders to the cook that if there 
was any milk it must be saved for this tiresome 
infant. . . . 

The sun was getting low in the west beyond the 
long line of eucalyptus trees that shut out from sight 
the wild stretch of mountainous country beyond, 
lovely now in its tones of amethyst and sapphire. 
Some of the nearer hills had been cleared for the 
planting of tea, and the trim, prim, symmetrical 
rows of low dark shrubs traversed them with a pre¬ 
cise regularity that reminded one of ruled paper. 
Beyond the tea-plantations there were lovely regions 
clothed with jungle as with a deep rich mantle of 
fadeless verdure. There were valleys too, with deep 
broad rivers; great rocks where the waterfalls 
made vertical lines of shining silver light; “patanas” 
or downs with their short, coarse grass burnt brown 
in the sun, and then in the distance, far as eye could 
reach, tier upon tier of mountains raising their pur¬ 
ple heads from seas of turquoise mist touched to 
gold now by the vivid brilliance of the sunset. 

Matthew walked across the grass, which made 
quite a respectable imitation of an English lawn, 
and stood beneath the eucalyptus trees. He watched 
with indifferent eyes the wonderful beauty of the 
sunset, the flooding golden light, the almost un- 


2 4 o VIOLA HUDSON 

believable colors that decorated the western sky. 
He was getting slightly anxious. Some hours had 
passed since the mysterious arrival of the two coolies 
with luggage, and still there was no sign of Mrs. 
Mansfield. He hoped that nothing had happened. 
He was short of labor as it was, and he did not 
want to send search-parties into the jungle to-night. 
Already it was getting late, and in a few minutes 
that lovely, brilliant sky-pageant would fade into 
dusk, and the brief tropical twilight would give place 
to night. 

“She ought to have been here hours ago,” he said. 

But even as he spoke his keen eyes discerned a 
movement in the path that from below where he 
stood wound its steep, twisted course toward the 
bungalow. Gradually the blots of mingled pallor 
and darkness resolved themselves into two groups. 
Yes, there were two chairs, carried by four coolies 
apiece. They mounted the steep slope slowly, care¬ 
fully. Again the padding of naked feet fell on his 
ear. The chairs swayed a little, for the path was 
rough and narrow, and it had suffered during the 
last monsoon. Matthew had not had it repaired. 
People who knew the district well, always came 
round the other way. It was a trifle longer, but the 
path was a much better one. He stood at the top of 
the slope, watching the approach of the chairs. 

The first one was close enough now for him to be 
able to see its occupant quite clearly, despite the 
rapidly fading light. Beneath the awning he saw 
what was certainly a very young and beautiful 
woman. On her lap she held a little baby. Quite 
a young baby. Not more than six months old, per¬ 
haps. Matthew wasn’t much of a judge of babies, 
but from the diminutive size of this one he felt that 
it could only number a few months of existence. 

The coolies, aware that they were being watched, 
proceeded more carefully. There was little hold for 


VIOLA HUDSON 


24.1 

their sure, naked feet just here at the top of the 
slope. But they achieved the summit without any 
disaster, and, halting abruptly, deposited their bur¬ 
dens quite near to the spot where Matthew was 
standing. From the first chair a white-clad figure 
stepped forth, just a little stiffly, as if she had been 
sitting in that cramped position for many hours. 
She carried the child on her left arm, loosely, with 
an easy grace born of custom. 

“It doesn’t look very safe like that,” thought 
Matthew Hudson. 

She approached him, smiling. 

“Are you Matthew? I am Viola ...” She 
held out her hand. “Your sister, Viola.” 

“Viola!” 

The color deepened in Matthew’s face. He was 
almost speechless with astonishment, yes, and anger. 
Viola and a child . . . They had no right to de¬ 
scend upon him like this without permission. In his 
letters from home there had been no mention of her 
marriage. And who and where was Mansfield? 
Why was he not looking after his wife and baby, 
instead of permitting them to stray about Ceylon 
in this unbridled fashion? Matthew had very stern 
notions about the duties of husbands. If they were 
foolish enough to saddle themselves with wives and 
babies, they should provide a home for them and not 
suffer them to wander promiscuously about the 
world. 

“This is my daughter, Hilary,” said Viola. She 
lifted the thin veil from her baby’s face and dis¬ 
closed a small cherubic sleeping countenance with 
a mass of damp golden curls. She bent over it with 
an adoring pride, looking as she did so, like some 
ancient Florentine Madonna. “Isn’t she a darling?” 
she added. 

“But I don’t understand—you never wrote—I 


242 


VIOLA HUDSON 


didn’t in the least expect you—no one ever told me 
you were married!” 

“Oh, there’s lots of time in which to tell you 
everything,” she said, gayly. “I’m sorry to have had 
to take you by surprise like this, but I thought per¬ 
haps it was best not to write. That’s Rebecca in 
the other chair—she was my maid and now she’s 
Hilary’s nurse.” 

By this time the remaining coolies had successfully 
negotiated the perilous path, and were now engaged 
in depositing the second chair upon the solid earth. 
Matthew barely glanced at the grim, tight-lipped 
face of the woman in gray print dress who emerged 
therefrom. She was elderly and plain and looked 
severe—he supposed all nurses had to be severe. 
He could dimly remember that his own had been a 
terror . . . 

“I want to give Hilary a bath and put her to bed 
as soon as possible,” said Viola. She transferred 
the baby to Rebecca’s arms and went with Matthew 
toward the house, while nurse and child followed at 
a little distance. 

“This is only the roughest bachelor establish¬ 
ment,” said Matthew, “but I can put you up 
for the night—a shake-down, you know—and that’s 
about all.” 

He felt it was necessary to make that quite clear 
from the outset. 

Viola said nothing; she did not seem to heed him. 
Her eyes were fixed upon the very charming scene 
before her. The bungalow stood there on a slight 
eminence, its pointed gable etched against the eve¬ 
ning sky. It was thickly overgrown with roses, 
honeysuckle, and the deep mauve bells of the thun- 
bergia that showed so pale among its dark polished 
foliage. At their feet the grass made a soft carpet 
almost to the steps that led up to the house. Low 
pillars stood on each side of the steps with pots of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


24 3 

scarlet geranium upon them. The man who had 
built it had made of his “lodge in the wilderness” 
a beautiful and artistic abode. But Matthew con¬ 
tented himself with keeping the place in fairly decent 
repair. He disliked spending his money unneces¬ 
sarily. A kind of rough order prevailed every¬ 
where. 

“How very pretty—it’s ever so much prettier 
than I expected,” she said, softly. 

The strong sweet scent of cinchona blossom was 
mingled with that of the jessamine and honeysuckle 
that tangled the porch. All the flowers in the gar¬ 
den seemed to be offering their evening incense after 
the heat of the day. 

“What a beautiful house, Matthew!” Viola 
paused, gazing up at it. 

In the dark blue sky above it, a faint star was now 
visible. 

“Glad you like it,” growled Matthew. “But it 
isn’t comfortable—there’s no accommodation for a 
lady. You must put up with it for to-night, 
though.” 

Matthew was the eldest of the three Hudson sons, 
and he was at least eighteen years older than Viola, 
whom up till now he had always regarded as a child. 
Having signally failed at school, he had begged 
when quite a lad to be allowed to go to Ceylon with 
a friend who possessed a coffee estate there. When 
coffee failed, Matthew bought Kellioya from the 
ruined and bankrupt owner, and having invested all 
his small capital in it, began forthwith to plant it up 
with tea. He was now a rich man, though he care¬ 
fully concealed the fact because he knew that George 
was a spendthrift and heavily in debt. Matthew 
had not been to England for a good many yeais; he 
never felt at his ease away from Kellioya. 

Viola disregarded his allusions to her speedy 
departure. She characteristically postponed the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


244 

moment of explanation. There would be plenty of 
time for that-—all the days, weeks, perhaps years, 
she intended to spend at Keilioya, wherein Matthew 
might learn within certain limits all that he desired 
to know. But when she glanced at his face her heart 
sank a little and something of her gay courage 
seemed to desert her. What if he should insist upon 
her leaving to-morrow? What if, after all, he re¬ 
fused to give an asylum to herself and Hilary? He 
was capable of this extreme conduct. 

She had not seen him since she was a child of 
twelve or so, and she had no very clear remem¬ 
brance of him, except that he had been a big, rough 
and terrifying man with a . loud, autocratic voice. 
And he was still big, rough, and terrifying. He 
didn’t look in the least like a gentleman. He had 
nothing of the refinement of George and Percival. 
He seemed to form part of these giant solitudes, 
immense, massive, unpolished. He had not at¬ 
tempted to welcome her or even to simulate pleasure 
in her arrival. He had nothing of the facile cour¬ 
tesy of the man of the world. He hated her coming, 
and he was not going to pretend that he didn’t. 
Perhaps even now he was consoling himself with the 
belief that she would depart on the morrow. 

What Matthew was really thinking was that he 
would take the earliest possible opportunity of show¬ 
ing Viola where her duty lay, and of inviting her to 
return to her husband. Perhaps there had been a 
foolish quarrel. 

“Will you show me my room first, please, Mat¬ 
thew? Hilary always sleeps with me. And I should 
like to have Rebecca somewhere near.” 

Matthew led the way up the steps and entered the 
bungalow through the dining-room window. Both 
dining-room and drawing-room opened directly 
upon the veranda, and there was no hall. He 
marched through the room and into a passage be- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


245 

yond, that seemed to lead into mysterious back 
regions. Here he halted and threw open a door. 

Viola saw a large, rather bare room. The floor 
was uncarpeted except for a few strips of worn mat¬ 
ting. On one side there was a bed, hung with mos¬ 
quito-netting, which was fastened to a post at each 
corner. There was an almira or wardrobe of teak, 
hardest and most resistant of woods, a chest of 
drawers, a couple of chairs and a table. Through 
a door at the farther end she could see another 
smaller compartment similarly furnished. 

“Your maid can sleep in there,” said Matthew, 
indicating the second room. “And the bathroom is 
just beyond.” 

“It’s charming, Matthew,” she said. “I shall put 
Hilary to bed at once. Can I have some milk for 
her, please? Oh, and some hot water.” 

By this time her calm, decided manner had 
wrought a magical effect upon the big clumsy man. 
He had had his fastnesses stormed; there had been 
no time in which to secure his defenses, and he was 
powerless to resist this determined invasion of the 
enemy. 

“I’ll go and see about it. We haven’t much milk, 
but I told the cook to save any there was. And 
you’ll want some tea.” 

“Yes, I should like some very much. It’s hours 
since I had anything to eat.” 

Matthew stumbled off toward the kitchen regions, 
which lay outside the bungalow, beyond a series of 
windowless buildings known as “godowns,” where 
various things were stored. 

Well, he would see that she and her brat were 
housed and fed for this one night. But he would 
explain to her the complete unsuitability, from every 
point of view, of Kellioya as a habitation for a 
young woman with a baby of tender age. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


246 

“And if there isn’t any milk, Matthew,” she called 
after him, “we must send for some!” 

Matthew paused in the doorway beyond. “Where 
would you send?” he inquired, grimly. “This is a 
very benighted spot. There isn’t a bazaar within 
six miles. When we haven’t got things, we have to 
learn to do without.” He almost hoped there 
wouldn’t be any milk. It would just show her . . . 

“Hilary simply can’t go without her milk!” 

She laid Hilary upon the bed, and stooping over 
her kissed her with a kind of rapture. The baby was 
even then a curious elfin creature with yellow crinkly 
hair and clear green eyes, the color of a breaking 
wave just beneath the foam. Hers was the third 
generation to possess those eyes. 

“He’s not going to be a bit nice to us, my 
precious,” Viola whispered. 

His one glance at the baby had been informed 
with a peculiar aversion, not so much for the indi¬ 
vidual as for the whole unpleasant species of human 
mammals. Viola had resented the look; in her 
opinion Hilary was the loveliest thing in the world, 
and the most adorable. Matthew should have had 
the discrimination to perceive that this was no 
ordinary baby, but the most delicious creature 
imaginable. 

She felt certain from the outset, that she would 
have trouble with Matthew. He wasn’t easy-going 
like Percival, nor recklessly generous like George. 
And how would he receive her confession if he in¬ 
sisted upon knowing the details of that sordid story? 

CHAPTER II 

* i V 0 SAY that Matthew Hudson was disconcerted 
by the arrival of his sister, would be to under¬ 
state the acute condition of mental perturbation in 
which he now found himself. She had invaded his 


VIOLA HUDSON 


247 

bungalow with nurse and child at a few hours’ warn¬ 
ing, when it was too late to take any measures which 
could conceivably stop her from coming, and dis¬ 
mally he began to wonder what plan he could 
possibly form to dispossess her, now that she was 
actually there. A man you could always kick out, 
he reflected, using physical force if necessary, and 
Matthew, being powerfully built and of enormous 
muscular strength, would not have hesitated to em¬ 
ploy such means of ridding himself of an unwelcome 
male intruder. But a woman—a young and beauti¬ 
ful woman—your own sister too, for although she 
might be quite a stranger you couldn’t overlook the 
tie of blood . . . that was another matter. And 
the assurance of her—that manner that seemed to 
relegate you to the kitchen and those highly mysteri¬ 
ous regions known in the East as godowns—you 
couldn’t do much against that! She was quite evi¬ 
dently taking refuge with him, had decided to avail 
herself and her brat of the shelter his bungalow 
could so well afford to give her. And yet at the 
same time she had an air of somehow conferring, 
high-handedly, a favor upon you. 

He remembered his telegram when the family had 
suggested that he should have Viola to live with him. 
Perhaps she had decided not to risk a repetition of 
that ancient curt refusal. 

Matthew was angry, rebellious, determined, what¬ 
ever happened, to oppose her evident intention to 
take up her abode with him, yet he went off quite 
meekly, to confer with the cook upon the all- 
important subject of milk. 

There was very little, but perhaps it would be 
enough for this evening. Master had had rice pud¬ 
ding for his “breakfast,” and much milk had been 
used for that, the cook reminded him. But the 
kitchen coolie could go at once to Mr. Keane’s and 
ask that milk might be sent over on the morrow, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


248 

Mr. Keane had many cows, it was certain therefore 
that he would have much milk. The “Little Missy” 
should have plenty of milk to-morrow. 

“I’ll give him a chit to take over to Keane durai,” 
said Hudson. 

He went into his own room and hastily scribbled 
on a scrap of paper: “Dear Keane, My sister Mrs. 
Mansfield has arrived unexpectedly with her baby, 
and we have hardly any milk. It would be awfully 
good of you to give my coolie any you can spare, and 
let us have some regularly for the present. Yours, 
M. H.” 

The letter would serve two purposes: it would 
insure a supply of milk, and it would inform Mr. 
Keane, a harmless gossip, of Viola’s arrival. The 
news that a lady was staying at Kellioya would cer¬ 
tainly spread like wildfire through the district, and 
Matthew dreaded to find himself being “chaffed” 
by his friends, and maliciously discussed by his 
enemies. And it was far too unique an event to 
escape notice. Coolie would tell coolie upon the 
road. There were the ten coolies who had carried 
chairs and luggage across the jungle; there were 
also the people in the Nuwara Eliya hotel. A little 
colony was always Argus-eyed. And like all hermits 
and misogynists Matthew had a morbid dread of 
gossip. But even in this remote and sparsely popu¬ 
lated district it was almost impossible to elude it 
altogether. 

And Keane, a widower living alone, with his two 
sons at school in England, always had every trivial 
Ceylon happening at his fingers’ ends. It was indeed 
quite possible that he already knew all about the 
arrival of Mrs. Mansfield with her child and nurse. 
Perhaps he was at this moment speculating as to her 
probable identity. Matthew was almost thankful to 
have this opportunity of informing him that Mrs. 
Mansfield was his own sister. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


249 

When he returned to the veranda, he found Viola 
standing there, evidently waiting for him. Her tall 
slight figure detached itself in pallid silhouette from 
the surrounding shadows, lit faintly by a lamp 
within the drawing-room. She had taken off her 
hat, and he could see the beauty of her little head 
with its close-growing dark hair, the low square 
brow, sharply perpendicular, the small pale face 
with its classic grace of outline, the dark eyes. In 
that moment he realized almost reluctantly how 
beautiful she was. As a child, though pretty enough, 
she had never given promise of such arresting love¬ 
liness. The sudden knowledge deepened his slowly- 
growing misgivings. She wasn’t a person who would 
long be content with the kind of life Kellioya could 
offer, nor was she the sort of woman you could put 
in the background and hide. People must assuredly 
have noticed her; on the steamer coming out, at the 
Colombo hotel, on her way up-country in the train. 
And perhaps they had already ascertained that she 
was “old Hudson’s’’ sister. Matthew had been 
called “old Hudson’’ long before age had given him 
the slightest claim to such sobriquet. 

It was a cruel, sardonic jest of fate to send him a 
sister at all, let alone such a sister as this one . . . 

She turned to him coolly. 

“Oh, what about the milk for Hilary?’’ 

Her clear voice held a note of authority. She was 
evidently accustomed to “fending” for herself and 
the child. 

“There isn’t very much. She shall have what 
there is. And I’ve sent over to Keane to ask him to 
let us have a regular supply—for the present.” 

“Oh, that’s most awfully kind of you, Matthew,” 
she said. 

“I’m sorry things aren’t more ship-shape, but I 
hope you’ll be able to manage for a day or two. You 
see, I didn’t expect you. And I’m not a sociable kind 


VIOLA HUDSON 


250 

of man—I never have any guests.” There was a 
certain disgust in his tone. “You should have 
written to tell me.” 

“I didn’t write on purpose,” she replied, coolly; 
“I felt sure you’d make some excuse for not having 
us. Like you did before, you know, when I left 
school. I had to fall back on Percival and Cecily 
then. So this time I didn’t even give you the chance 
of refusing.” 

“Well, you can’t stay here now, if that’s what 
you’re driving at,” growled Matthew. “I don’t 
mind putting you and your brat up for a couple of 
nights, till you’re rested from your journey. But 
after that you must go back to your husband as soon 
as possible. I’m all for married people making the 
best of their own bad job. And, anyhow, it must be 
very early days for you to quarrel. That baby of 
yours can’t be more than a few months old.” 

“She is nearly seven months old,” said Viola; “of 
course I know she’s tiny. And she was horribly deli¬ 
cate at first, but she’s getting on famously now.” 

“Where is your husband? Why aren’t you with 
him? The sooner you write and make it up with 
him, the better!” 

There was not much light in the veranda, but 
Viola sat facing the door of the drawing-room so 
that what little there was fell full upon her face. 
Matthew could see that she grew paler and that her 
eyes became suddenly dark and somber with a queer 
brooding look. 

“I shall never go back to my husband,” she said, 
“and what is more, I couldn’t if I wanted to. Some 
day I’ll tell you the whole story, Matthew, but you 
mustn’t ask me to do so to-night. It is rather a 
horrible one, and you won’t like it much. Hilary 
and I have no home, and we have only just enough 
to live on. We shan’t be in your way if you’ll let us 


VIOLA HUDSON 


251 

stay under your roof, and we’ll pay for all that we 
eat and drink.” 

Her eyes looked into his; they were hard and 
bright. 

“Oh, that’s impossible! It isn’t a question of 
money at all. But I prefer to live alone. You must 
go away—the day after to-morrow. And it’s ab¬ 
surd to say you can’t go back to your husband. I 
shall see that you do go back—it’s your duty—and 
you’re too young to judge for yourself. You must 
both go away ...” 

She went up to him. About her there was a faint 
fragrance as of some woodland flower. 

“We simply can’t,” she said, “as you’ll see for 
yourself when you hear the whole story. Dear Mat¬ 
thew—you can’t turn us out of doors. And this is 
such a quiet, remote place—so far from everyone— 
just the place for us . . . for me and Hilary.” 

“Why didn’t you stay v/ith Percival?” 

“Cecily wouldn’t have had me, so I didn’t suggest 
it. She hates scandals.” 

“And so do I. I won’t have you here. I’ll write 
to your husband. I’ll insist upon his providing a 
home for you.” 

“Matthew—you’ll never be able to do that be¬ 
cause I shall not tell you his real name nor where he 
lives. I’ve never told that to a soul. My marriage 
was a secret one. And afterward I discovered that 
it wasn’t a real ceremony at all—it was a mock one. 
I’m not married, I haven’t a husband ...” 

Matthew stared at her from under his shaggy, 
jutting brows. The expression on his face was not 
a very pleasant one. His thoughts, deeply concen¬ 
trated upon this appalling confession, circled round 
the diminutive person of Hilary. All at once Viola’s 
obvious adoration of her baby seemed to him a 
shameless emotion. She ought to have hidden her 
out of sight. But to thrust her upon him here—! 


252 VIOLA HUDSON 

“Do you mean this brat of yours is illegitimate?” 
he demanded. 

She flinched at the word. Alas, all through her 
life, the life that ought to have been so pure and 
beautiful, this ugly stigma of dishonor would attach 
itself to Hilary. 

She was silent. 

“The man must be made to marry you,” he said, 
white with anger. “Percival’s a lawyer—he ought 
to have seen to it.” 

“I wouldn’t marry him for all the world!” 

“That’s nonsense—you must be made to marry 
him. Is he in decent circumstances?” 

“Ye,” 

“Your superior in point of birth?” 

“He would think so.” 

“And how do you know the marriage wasn’t 
legal?” 

“He told me so.” 

“And why didn’t you take steps immediately?” 

“Because,” and she lifted her head with a proud 
little gesture he never forgot, “because—I didn’t 
wish to marry him. He offered me marriage.” 

Matthew stared at her with mingled contempt 
and disgust. 

“Then why on earth were you such a fool as to 
refuse?” 

“The conditions he made were too hard. I should 
have had to bring up my children as Protestants.” 
She spoke very calmly. 

“What difference would that have made? We’re 
all Protestants except yourself. I always thought it 
very narrow-minded of Aunt Hope to insist upon 
bringing you up in the errors of Rome!” 

“Well, you see, I was too much attached to the 
‘errors of Rome,’ as you call them, to deprive my 
child of its spiritual inheritance.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


*53 


“But this secret ceremony—was that in a Catholic 
church?” 

“No. That was where I did wrong. Oh, I know 
I was duped and deceived, but I was in the wrong, 
too. I disobeyed . . . And I’ve been punished, 
Matthew—very heavily and bitterly punished. I’ve 
suffered for it.” She looked at him with her clear, 
tranquil gaze. “Those months before Hilary was 
born ... I was abroad in Italy, and I nearly died. 
I should have died, I think, if it hadn’t been for 
Rebecca. We lived for the most part in quiet little 
towns where there were hardly any English and it 
was very cheap.” 

“It’s most unfortunate that you should be saddled 
with this child! Otherwise you could have gone 
back to your maiden name, and no one would have 
been any the wiser.” 

She laughed. “But I wouldn’t be without Hilary 
for all the world!” 

“She complicates everything. And when she 
grows older you’ll have to tell her. If she wants 
to marry, for instance—it wouldn’t be fair to the 
man not to tell him.” Matthew spoke with a certain 
indignation. 

“I suppose not,” said Viola, wearily. 

“If you’d asked my advice I should have urged 
you for your own sake to hide her. You could easily 
have found someone to adopt her!” 

“I felt at all costs—even at the cost of my good 
name and hers—I must keep Elilary in my own 
hands;—give her the same Faith, the same gift, that 
I had had myself. It was her birthright.” 

“It seems to me against all religion not to marry 
a man when you’re going to have his child,” said 
Matthew, crudely. 

“Well, it depends. We Catholics put our Faith 
first ...” 

Her own child . . . When Viola thought of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


254 

Hilary, her heart softened and all its hard and bitter 
places seemed to melt and break up. Long ago she 
had resolved that all the happiness and freedom 
that had been so lacking in her own childhood should 
belong to her daughter, together with those spiritual 
gifts which had been hers for so many years. She 
was glad that she had this eternal heritage to bestow 
upon her baby. She remembered the joy with which 
she had seen her being baptized in the old Baptistery 
at Florence, for it was in the City of Flowers, almost 
under the shadow of Brunelleschi’s ruby-colored 
Dome, that her baby had come into the world. Her 
one fear had been that she herself would die and 
leave Hilary to be brought up by strangers even as 
she had been. She had wanted a little girl. Since 
the child’s birth she had been very calm and happy. 
It was only before, that she had known strange 
moments of terror and apprehension. But she had 
long ago been to Confession, had made her peace 
with the Church, had savored the grace of pardon 
and absolution. It had helped her to look upon life 
with new eyes. She resolved that never again would 
she forfeit the Divine friendship. She would ever 
go softly in remembrance of those days when she 
had strayed beyond the Fold. 

All through her months of waiting, her cruelly 
sharp illness, Rebecca had tended her like a child. 
She had learned to love the grim, harsh-visaged 
maid almost with tenderness. And when at last 
funds ran low, Viola had resolved to take her cour¬ 
age in both hands and go out to Ceylon. 

“Well, I’m very sorry for you, Viola, very sorry 
indeed,” said Matthew. “It seems to me that, as 
the saying goes, you’ve been more sinned against 
than sinning, and you were a little fool not to marry 
the man if you had half a chance of doing so. It’s 
too late now you’ve got that brat on your hands, 
unless of course you were to hide her away. To 


VIOLA HUDSON 


255 

think you’re not yet twenty, and that you should 
have made this unholy mess of your life! But I 
simply can’t keep you here. It’s a rough bachelor 
domain and you’d be sick to death of it in a month. 
And it’s jolly uncomfortable. And with a child it’s 
impossible. What would you do if your baby was 
taken ill? There isn’t a doctor within twenty miles. 
And I ’ve no neighbors except Keane. But I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do, Viola—I’ll send you home. I can 
pay your passage. I’ll take you down to Colombo 
and see you off. Only, you can’t stay here. It’s a 
very small world, and people will naturally ask 
questions. You’re too young . . . And though I’m 
not a society man, I’m respected in Ceylon. And 
you—you’ve dragged our name in the mud. No, I 
couldn’t have you. People have a way of finding out 
about things.” 

This was probably one of the longest speeches 
Matthew Hudson had ever made in his life, and it 
was certainly one of the most vehement and sincere. 
He had a terror of other people’s tongues, and a 
morbid fear of adverse criticism. And Viola by 
reason of her youth and beauty was bound to attract 
attention. Men would come from far and near, on 
one pretext or another, to see “old Hudson’s” pretty 
sister. 

“Matthew, you mustn’t send me away. I can’t go 
back to England and I haven’t any home. Let me 
stay just for a few months. I need peace—” Her 
face was very white. “It’s so dreadful to wander 
about the world with a little baby.” 

“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he stormed. 
“You should have told Percival you were going to 
get married and asked his advice. When a man 
wants to keep his marriage such a secret as that, 
you may depend there’s something wrong. Bigamy 
if not worse. And you knew you were doing wrong 
—you said so. You did it with your eyes open. But 


256 VIOLA HUDSON 

you mustn’t expect me to be bothered with your 
brat!” 

He looked at her with a kind of veiled hostility. 
He had an idea that she was the kind of woman who 
made slaves of men. And he was not going to be 
her slave. Although she was his sister, she was 
almost a stranger to him. He didn’t know her. He 
didn’t want her. She’d no right to come here, whin¬ 
ing for charity. He did not feel the slightest affec¬ 
tion for her. And he remembered someone had said 
Aunt Hope had called her a troublesome child . . . 

Viola’s eyes flashed. 

“Matthew, I don’t mind you’re behaving in¬ 
humanly to me, but I’m not going to let you 
turn Hilary adrift. We’re going to stop here for 
the present, and I promise to annoy you as little as 
possible. We shan’t be any expense to you. I’ve 
got three hundred a year now and I shall have four 
when I come of age.” She spoke with a spirited 
determination that had a visible effect upon him. 

He was silent. He knew that he couldn’t turn 
her out unless he used physical violence, and what a 
story that would make. In Ceylon there was no 
possibility of secret action. Everyone knew every¬ 
one else’s business. 

“Only for the present, then,” he said at last. 
“Until you can make other plans.” 

Viola went up to him and kissed his forehead. 
There was something fearless in the little action, for 
she was perfectly aware that he would not hesitate 
to repulse her brutally if the impulse should so seize 
him. But he did not move, he was far too much 
taken aback. He could not remember that any 
woman had kissed him since he had arrived at man’s 
estate. 

“Thank you, Matthew,” she whispered. “I’m 
frightfully grateful. But I didn’t really think you’d 


VIOLA HUDSON 


257 

let me down. It’s most awfully good of you not to 
turn us out.” 

“It’s only for the moment. I can’t keep you here 
very long.” 

But Viola had learned to live in the present, and 
she felt that she had been granted an indefinite 
respite. For perhaps months to come she would 
have shelter, a roof, food, for herself and Hilary. 

She went into the bungalow and down the passage 
that led from the dining-room; he could hear her 
footsteps fading away in the distance. She had gone 
to Hilary. 

“Well, it’s beastly bad luck on her, anyway,” he 
thought. “And a child, too.” It seemed as if he 
were trying to excuse his own weakness to himself. 

But the question of the money had decided him to 
keep them for the present. Matthew was close, and 
this addition to the household income would be very 
valuable. Even if she only gave him two hundred 
and fifty pounds a year, that would more than pay 
her expenses, with the rupee at its present value. 
She could keep fifty for her clothes and out-of-pocket 
expenses, and for Hilary. And he would insist in 
return that she should lead a quiet life, not rushing 
about and visiting neighbors or inviting people to 
the bungalow. 

He hadn’t much confidence in her wisdom or 
sagacity, but she had had a pretty stiff lesson, and 
he could only hope that she had profited by it. 


CHAPTER III 

V IOLA sat for a long time that night by Hilary’s 
side. The child was lying on the wide bed 
under the mosquito-netting, sleeping very quietly. 
Strange, unaccustomed sounds reached Viola’s 


VIOLA HUDSON 


258 

ears across the peculiar stillness of the night. The 
rasping, grating noise made by the insect known as 
the scissor-grinder, the haunting cry of a screech- 
owl, the savage barking of the jackals, and at the 
back of it all the faint rhythmic measure of tom¬ 
toms that were being played down in the coolie lines 
half a mile away. 

But within the bungalow everything was perfectly 
still. The murmur of the servants’ voices, perhaps 
discussing the unusual happenings of the day, had 
ceased at last. 

Viola remembered the apparently endless tracts 
of jungle through which she had been carried to 
reach Kellioya, and she realized how far away she 
was, how remote, from the outside world. Yet 
Matthew had lived here for nearly twenty years. 
He was never happy away from this lonely spot. It 
offered him all that he desired. 

All through the past months the thought of Kel¬ 
lioya had attracted Viola. It was a new world, and 
though she was not tired of the old one, she had 
grown to be mortally afraid of it. That fear of 
recognition, of explanation, of discovery, had 
haunted her, and made her roam restlessly through 
Italy, France and Switzerland. She had never set 
foot in England since the day of her hasty flight 
from her brother’s house with Rebecca. She could 
not meet the pitying, curious, perhaps condemnatory 
eyes. 

When she thought of Esme now, it was without 
bitterness. Ele was simply the man who had cruelly 
tricked her and then cast her off, unable to make 
sacrifices for her, offering her conditions that were 
impossible for her to accept. Ele loved her, she 
didn’t doubt that, but he had always been incapable 
of facing poverty for her sake. She did not ask her¬ 
self whether he still loved her in that strange egoistic 
fashion of his; whether he were happy or unhappy, 


VIOLA HUDSON 259 

now that he had definitely lost her. She didn’t care. 
She didn’t love him. But once she had loved him, 
with a trembling worship such as perhaps a woman 
feels once and for one only, and there were things 
even now of which she dared not think lest an emo¬ 
tion deeper than sorrow, stronger than anger, should 
invade her heart. She was thankful, at such times, 
to feel that she was securely hidden from Esme; 
that it was almost impossible they should ever meet 
again. 

But she remembered him when little Hilary 
looked at her with Esme’s eyes—those clear green 
eyes, wide apart, wide open. Yes, there would 
always be Hilary to prevent her from forgetting 
Esme. 

Mr. Keane walked over to Kellioya on the follow¬ 
ing afternoon, to call upon Hudson’s sister, as he 
inwardly called her. He expected to find a plain 
woman of the massive type, no longer very young, a 
kind of Matthew in petticoats, so that surprise 
awaited him. 

He was an elderly man, well on in his forties but 
looking even more. His hair and beard were griz¬ 
zled, and he was growing stout, as men do in the 
tropics unless they become thin to emaciation. Ele 
was a widower, with a couple of sons at school in 
England. He was very well known and greatly 
respected in Ceylon, and, having some private 
means, was reputed to be wealthy. His generosity 
supported this view. 

When Matthew saw him advancing across the 
grass, he thought: 

“He’s coming to have a look at Viola.” 

The thought annoyed him intensely. Keane was 
a man who frequently visited friends in other dis¬ 
tricts; he attended most of the up-country race- 
meetings; he was acquainted with all the gossip of 


26 o 


VIOLA HUDSON 


Ceylon, and thus he rendered his exile as little irk¬ 
some as possible. He would often ride up to 
Nuwara Eliya for a few days, or spend a week in 
Colombo, where he had hosts of friends among the 
government officials and rich merchants. He was 
very popular, and had an easy charm of manner. 
People sometimes wondered why he had never mar¬ 
ried again. His wife had been dead some years. 

Keane would be certain to tell the whole little 
world of Ceylon how beautiful “old Hudson’s sis¬ 
ter” was. The thought was intolerable to Matthew. 
He wished it had been possible to keep her out of 
sight. 

All day he had been calling himself a fool for per¬ 
mitting her to stop. But it was too late now to go 
back on his word, and then the prospect of acquiring 
most of her income was a very strong incentive to 
Matthew for keeping her at Kellioya. But she was 
very exacting, and he found himself constantly obey¬ 
ing and submitting, and carrying out her orders, just 
as if she were the owner of the bungalow. Not that 
she wanted anything for herself, but she was singu¬ 
larly determined that Hilary should have everything 
that was necessary for her age. The carpenter had 
put important work aside in order to make the child 
a crib without delay. Pillows were being undone to 
be re-fashioned into a little mattress. Some of the 
worn sheets had been cut up by Rebecca into smaller 
ones for the little cot. It seemed to Matthew 
that Viola had taken complete possession of the 
bungalow. 

“Hullo, Hudson—I hear you’re quite a family 
party here,” said Keane’s agreeable cheery voice. 
Naturally of a friendly, hospitable disposition, he 
was little able to understand his neighbor’s curious 
preference for a lonely, penurious life. And it 
wasn’t as if Hudson was really poor or had a family 


VIOLA HUDSON 


261 


for whom it was necessary to save; on the contrary, 
he was locally supposed to have made his “bit.” 

“My sister, Mrs. Mansfield, has arrived, if you 
mean that,” said Matthew, rather stiffly. 

“You’ve kept it pretty dark,” smiled Keane, walk¬ 
ing into the veranda and throwing himself upon a 
roomy wicker-chair piled with cushions in red cotton 
covers. He had had a long walk; the afternoon was 
hot; he hoped that soon he would at least be offered 
a cup of good strong Kellioya tea. 

At that moment Viola appeared through the 
drawing-room window. Keane’s first impression of 
her was that this couldn’t possibly be Mrs. Mans¬ 
field, but a young girl who had accompanied her. 
She looked perhaps about seventeen years old, and 
she was tall, slender, dark-haired and very lovely. 
But when he rose and held out his hand and saw her 
face more closely, he perceived that though young 
her expression was mature and that her eyes must 
have looked upon suffering. They were wonderful 
eyes—dark, poetical, dreamy. One did not readily 
associate such beauty, such delicate grace, with 
Matthew Hudson’s relations. 

“My sister, Mrs. Mansfield,” murmured Mat¬ 
thew. “Viola—this is my nearest neighbor, Mr. 
Keane.” 

“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Mansfield,” said 
Keane, heartily. “It is very brave of you to come 
out to Kellioya—ladies don’t often venture so far 
unless of course their husbands live hereabouts. 
We’re a very unsociable lot, principally because our 
bungalows are so far apart, and we’ve hardly any 
young people to keep us alive. I’m afraid you’ll find 
it dull. But Hudson must bring you over to my 
place one day. Do you ride? It’s quite a pleasant 
ride along the river.” 

“Thanks very much—I can ride, and I should 
love to come,” said Viola. 



262 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“I could send my pony over for you if you haven’t 
anything of your own.” 

“I’m afraid my sister still has to learn that I’m a 
very unsociable man, who never pays visits if he can 
help it,” said Hudson, ungraciously. 

He stood there, massive, bulky, the picture of 
rough strength, a Titan of a man. 

“Oh, but Mrs. Mansfield must cure you of these 
misanthropic ways,” said Keane, smiling. 

“No, she won’t. She’s got to live my life. And 
if she doesn’t like it she can go away,” said 
Matthew. 

His speech produced an astonished silence. His 
manner had been both rude and abrupt and dis¬ 
agreeable. Viola crimsoned, and Keane, picking up 
an English illustrated paper, glanced perfunctorily 
at its contents. 

What must Mrs. Mansfield think of this great 
hulking boor of a man? 

“Poor Matthew,” said Viola, at last, “it’s very 
good of him to have us. I do feel it’s hard enough 
to have three people descending upon him as we did 
yesterday. So the least we can do is to be very good 
and give as little trouble as possible.” 

“Three people?” said Keane. 

“Yes—I brought my baby and her nurse.” 

“How old’s your baby?” asked Keane. It was 
difficult to believe this young creature should already 
have savored maternal cares. She must have mar¬ 
ried unusually young. But he knew nothing of 
her—he did not remember even to have heard of her 
existence until Matthew’s note had reached him 
yesterday. 

“She’s such a darling, you must see her presently,” 
said Viola. “Is the climate here good for children?” 

“Good enough. I kept my two boys out here until 
they were seven and eight. I only sent them home 
then because I felt the elder one ought to go to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


263 

school, and they were so devoted I couldn’t separate 
them. But a girl could stay much longer—you can 
teach a girl yourself or get a governess for her.” 

“Oh, I could teach her. I used to teach my 
brother’s children in London,” said Viola, looking 
relieved. 

Keane glanced at her. Yes, but what about her¬ 
self? Kellioya was a very lonely place for a young 
and beautiful woman to spend her youth in. Had 
she been there with her husband, that would have 
altered matters. Keane’s own wife had loved 
Kuduwatte, every stick and stone of it; she had 
made a beautiful home there for himself and their 
two children. But to live here, miles and miles from 
a cart-road or a town, with a cross-grained old cur¬ 
mudgeon like Hudson 1 . . . 

The odd thing was, though, that she didn’t seem 
to be thinking of herself at all. All her thoughts 
were centered upon her child and its welfare. Was 
life, in its active, emotional phases already past for 
her? Impossible . . . Even supposing she were a 
widow, she would surely marry again. She didn’t 
look like a widow either, in that white dress with 
the jade beads at her throat. 

“You must show me your little girl,” he said, 
kindly. “I know quite a lot about babies. But ours 
were both boys.” 

“I’ll go and see if she’s awake,” said Viola, glad 
of an excuse to fetch Hilary. 

When she had gone, Matthew observed gruffly: 
“You must excuse my sister—she’s quite cracked 

about that brat of hers.” 

“Oh, but I like to see a woman—a young woman, 
too—wrapped up in her kiddies, said Keane. 

Matthew hesitated and then said: “I must tell 
you this in confidence, Keane. My sister is separated 
from her husband. A miserable little stoiy she 
was young and very imprudent. If you heai any 


264 VIOLA HUDSON 

gossip you can just say that . . . and that I told 
you.” 

Keane was immensely interested. He had felt 
certain that there must be some kind of story to 
account for Viola’s sudden appearance at Kellioya. 

“She won’t stay here long,” he pronounced, con¬ 
fidently; “it isn’t the right place for anyone so 
young.” 

“And I’ve no accommodation for such a large 
party. If she’d consulted me in time, I should have 
urged her not to come at all.” 

So her arrival had been, even as Keane had begun 
to suspect, entirely unexpected. 

“She might get a divorce and marry again,” he 
suggested. 

“Oh, she couldn’t do that in any case. She’s been 
brought up a Roman Catholic. When she was a 
little child she went to live with an aunt who was a 
fanatical Roman.” 

“Oh,” said Keane. 

Viola reappeared, carrying Hilary in her arms. 
She carried her in the loose, easy fashion that had 
always struck Matthew as so dangerous. The child 
was awake and their two faces were pressed to¬ 
gether. 

“What queer green eyes,” said Keane. “I don’t 
think I ever saw eyes quite that color before.” 

“Perhaps they’ll change,” said Viola. “Babies’ 
eyes often change, you know.” Her dark hair 
looked darker than ever against Hilary’s curly locks 
of silver-flax. “And they’re very sweet, aren’t they, 
with their long lashes?” 

Matthew watched his sister. How she adored 
Hilary! ... It was just as if she had no room in 
her life for anything else. She didn’t care where 
she was as long as she could have her baby with her. 

“She’s a lovely little thing,” said Keane, admir¬ 
ingly. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


265 

“Yes, isn’t she?” said Viola. “And she’s so in¬ 
telligent. I’m always expecting her to begin to talk, 
but I suppose it’s too soon yet. You see, I’ve abso¬ 
lutely no experience of babies, and I never knew 
they could be so—so wonderful!” 

She made such a pretty picture sitting there with 
Hilary on her knee, that Keane could hardly take his 
eyes from her. Matthew had told him a little, a 
very little, of her story, and it was a sorrowful one. 
She must have known great unhappiness and misery, 
and perhaps Kellioya would give her just the things 
she needed, peace, and sunshine, and solitude. 

“By the way, Madura’s sold,” he said, suddenly. 
“Old Deepham isn’t coming back, and it seems that 
Sir Garth Bennet has bought it. They say he means 
to plant rubber. He’s a youngish chap, you know— 
he was in Ceylon last winter, and stayed with me for 
a few days—he’s lost his wife and was rather down 
in the mouth. There’s one child—a boy, I believe— 
but he’s to be left at home with old Lady Bennet.” 

It was extraordinary, Matthew thought, how 
Keane managed to pick up so much information 
about people who were comparative strangers. 

“Rubber!” he said with contempt, “he must have 
more money than brains.” 

“Well, he thinks there’s a future for it,” said 
Keane. 

It was before the days of motor-cars, and the uses 
of india-rubber were far more restricted than at the 
present time. 

“He declares that people will make bigger for¬ 
tunes out of it than they ever did out of coffee or 
tea,” continued Keane. 

“Well, let him ruin himself in his own way,” said 
Hudson, genially. “When’s he coming?” 

“Next month, I believe. I’ve told him I’ll put 
him up till he can get the place habitable. You 
know, Deepham had let things go to pieces latterly. 



266 


VIOLA HUDSON 


The bungalow’s in an awful state, and Bennet will 
have to build new lines for the coolies.” 

Deepham had been a hermit after Hudson’s own 
heart. He had, however, spent his solitude in drink¬ 
ing deeply, leaving things on the estate to go to rack 
and ruin, in a country, too, where Nature aids and 
abets such indifference in the work of destruction. 
Now he had gone home, ruined in all probability, 
broken in health and fortune. And this young chap 
was coming out full of fine new ideas about pulling 
the place together. Rubber, indeed! Matthew 
could hardly conceal his contempt for that com¬ 
modity. Now if it had only been something to eat 
or drink, he reflected, that would have been another 
matter. 

After tea the two men sat smoking in the veranda. 
They could see Viola wandering about the garden 
with Hilary in her arms. It was nearing the hour of 
sunset, and she wanted to see again that amazing, 
brilliant pageant of which she had caught glimpses 
on her journey yesterday. A cool, delicious air was 
flowing in from the mountains, full of fragrance 
and scent. 

Viola said to herself: “He hates my being here. 
He wants me to go away . . . He’ll try to make it 
impossible for me to stop.” 

Yes, he was a big, rough bully of a man. Long 
solitude had made him coarse, ill-mannered, fero¬ 
cious. Very different from Percival and George, 
yet possessing something that they altogether lacked 
—a queer elemental strength that was not unattrac¬ 
tive. It put him, in a sense, above them. They 
seemed by comparison little men with narrow and 
conventional views. 

But she liked Mr. Keane. She felt that he had 
been charming and sympathetic about Hilary. 

In the veranda Keane said, between the puffs of 
his beloved pipe: “Kellioya’s becoming quite fash- 


VIOLA HUDSON 267 

ionable. If they’d only push the railway up as 
they’re always talking of doing!” 

“God forbid!” said Hudson, with unusual piety. 

“Well, it would be the making of us all. Our 
land would treble its value. And even if we didn’t 
want to sell, it would be far more convenient for our 
produce.” 

“I’m perfectly contented now,” said Hudson. “I 
hate changes. I shouldn’t stay here another day if 
the railway came up that valley. People would be 
building bungalows and letting them to the Colombo 
families in the spring as they do in Nuwara Eliya. 
We should be having tennis-clubs, dancing, races and 
all the rest of it!” 

“So much the better,” said Keane. “I’ve always 
hoped they might develop the district a bit before my 
boys are old enough to come out. It’s all very well 
for us old fogies, but for the young! I’m afraid 
David wouldn’t stick it for six months.” 

David was his elder son. 

“You’d much better teach him to work hard and 
not gad about,” said Eludson, surlily. “I have to 
be pretty strict myself with that young fool Brett. 
He’d be off to Kandy or Colombo every month if 
I let him, squandering his substance.” 

Keane emptied the ashes from his pipe. Then 
he said slowly, “I’ve been wanting to speak to you 
about young Brett, Hudson.” 

Brett was an assistant (a “creeper” or “S. D.” in 
Ceylon parlance), who in consideration of a pre¬ 
mium resided on Hudson’s estate and learned the 
mysteries of tea-planting under his aegis. He lived 
a sufficiently lonely life for a lad of twenty-two, in a 
small bungalow down by the river. 

“You can’t tell me anything I don’t know about 
him,” said Hudson, roughly. His voice was raised 
and defiant. 

“That boy’s doing no good out here,” said Keane, 


268 


VIOLA HUDSON 


in his well-bred measured tones. “He’s too lonely, 
and he’s drinking much more than’s good for him. 
You oughtn’t to let him stay unless you can have 
him to live here with you, and keep your eye on 
him. He’s very young, and he’s a nice boy—I don’t 
like to see him going to the bad. I’ve thought once 
or twice of writing to his mother.” 

“He’s a consummate young fool,” said Matthew, 
“and I’m looking after him quite as much as I can. 
You’d better not interfere between me and my assist¬ 
ant, Keane,” he added. 

“Well, I’m not going to let him ruin himself 
in front of my eyes, Hudson,” said Keane, imper¬ 
turbably. “I suppose they’re paying a pretty stiff 
premium?” 

“None too much,” said Hudson, “considering he 
doesn’t do a stroke of work.” 

The subject of young Brett was distasteful to 
him. He had only consented to take a pupil at all 
in consideration of the very favorable terms pro¬ 
posed. But the boy, who had been there now about 
nine months, was idle and unsatisfactory. It was 
no business, however, of Keane’s-—a gossip if ever 
there was one! 

He was glad when Keane rose to go. This man 
voiced public opinion to a very great extent, he was 
universally liked and respected; he was always 
ready to hold out a helping hand to those less for¬ 
tunate than himself. Matthew could not deny him 
a certain unwilling admiration and respect. But he 
couldn’t have him interfering. He would speak to 
young Brett, and give him a good talking-to. The 
boy was idle and lonely, there was really nothing 
else the matter. 

As they walked across the garden, they met Viola 
carrying Hilary. She made a pretty picture stand¬ 
ing there in the lengthening shadows with the child 
in her arms. 


VIOLA HUDSON 269 

Keane said good-by to her, and as he walked 
homeward, following the footpath that led across 
the neat, prim tea-plantations, he said to himself: 

“So that’s the mysterious Mrs. Mansfield. I 
wonder what she’ll make of old Matthew?” 


CHAPTER IV 

M ATTHEW’S secret passion was money. He 
had the miser’s nature, and loved his money 
far more than anything it could conceivably buy. 
For upward of eighteen years he had been living 
penuriously, frugally, in order that he might save 
every rupee that he could. He had bought Kellioya 
with his own small inheritance soon after the coffee 
crash in the late ’seventies when land was cheap; 
and he had planted it up with tea as many others 
at that time were beginning to do. Some of his 
earnings he had invested in gilt-edged securities in 
England, and characteristically he never touched the 
interest of this money. 

Viola was shocked at his stained worn clothes, 
his patched shabby boots. Once she said some¬ 
thing about it, but he was angry and told her not 
to make personal remarks. His red-brown eyes 
glinted under the shaggy prominent brows with a 
look of which she was already beginning to be a little 
afraid. 

He wrote to Percival soon after Viola’s arrival, 
requesting him to send a detailed account of her 
income. Percival had changed some of her invest¬ 
ments, and the income already stood at a higher 
figure. She wasn’t entitled to the whole of it until 
she came of age, but in consideration of her misfor¬ 
tunes and of her having a child to support, he was 
willing to let her have it all now. It amounted to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


270 

just four hundred a year. Until she came of age 
Percival held the capital in his own hands. Viola 
would have been a far richer woman, he explained, 
if she had only behaved sensibly and accepted an 
income from her child’s father, a thing which she 
had altogether declined to do. 

Pie added that he was glad to think she had found 
a home with Matthew. They had had no news of 
her for many months until the receipt of his letter. 

Matthew read the letter carefully, two or three 
times. Four hundred a year. He had had no idea 
that Aunt Hope had been able to do so much for 
his sister. Jolly lucky thing that they had consented 
to her adopting her, even though it had involved 
bringing Viola up as a Catholic and so preventing 
her from behaving like ordinary sensible folk. 

Four hundred a year. He worked it out rapidly 
in rupees. The rupee was then at a low value, and 
Viola would gain enormously upon the exchange. 
Even supposing she kept fifty pounds for her own 
clothes and Hilary’s, that would still leave a sub¬ 
stantial sum per annum in his hands. Her keep 
wouldn’t cost all that. Life in Ceylon was cheap, 
as long as one lived quietly on the estate and didn’t 
gad about to Colombo and Kandy, to race-meetings 
and dances. And of course the less Viola was seen 
the better. People would only ask questions. A 
woman living apart from her husband is ever the 
quarry of malicious tongues, no matter how innocent 
she may be. And Viola, alas, wasn’t innocent. She 
had been very greatly to blame for that secret mar¬ 
riage. She had even frankly acknowledged that 
she had known she was doing wrong. She ought 
to have consulted Percival. 

“I’ve heard from Percival and he’s consented to 
let you have your full income now,” he told her. 
“It’s four hundred a year, and you can keep fifty 
for yourself and Hilary.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


271 


“I can’t manage on fifty,” she replied, with un¬ 
usual decision. “You must remember I have to pay 
Rebecca’s wages. I must have a hundred at least.” 
She had discovered by this time Matthew’s ruling 
passion, and was determined not to allow herself 
and Hilary to be victimized by it. “You can have 
three hundred a year, Matthew. We shan’t cost 
you that.” 

In the end he was obliged to consent, though he 
assured her that he should lose by the arrangement. 
But in his heart he knew that it would enable him 
to add something to his slowly-growing store of 
rupees, and henceforth he became in a measure 
reconciled to the fact of Viola’s presence at Kellioya. 

“It’s awfully nice of you not to get rid of us,” 
she added, smiling. She had rather expected to be 
dismissed directly Matthew was assured that she 
had enough to live upon. 

But though Kellioya was an admirable place for 
a man to make and save money in, and was further 
noted for its excellent tea, it was a much less favor¬ 
able spot for the habitation of a young, restless, 
ambitious woman not yet twenty years of age. 

When Viola first arrived in Ceylon she was still 
numbed by the catastrophe that had befallen her, 
and her one idea was to hide from curious and pry¬ 
ing eyes. She only needed a safe asylum for her¬ 
self and Hilary. 

But this condition of mind was destined to pass 
as it does with all normal people, who cannot live 
forever at the height of a grief, sorrow, or mis¬ 
fortune, or even of a pleasurable emotion. There 
must be a descent to earth, a longing for the good 
common things of life, with even a renewal of the 
enjoyment of them. 

Thus it was that the loneliness, the absolute sin¬ 
ister solitude of Kellioya began insensibly to affect 


272 


VIOLA HUDSON 


her. It was pleasant in line weather; its arresting 
loveliness to one unused to the gorgeous grandeur 
of the tropics was a real joy to her; and even in 
line weather it was seldom too hot. But there were 
monsoon days, when the winds from the four 
quarters of the world seemed to meet and clamor 
upon the hills of Kellioya, and the rain hissed down 
upon the long-parched earth, that made Viola long 
to lift up her voice with the voices of Nature and 
shriek aloud. It was the solitude, she told herself, 
the absence of any companion who spoke her own 
language, except Matthew and Rebecca. Matthew 
was seldom in the house; he was either tramping 
about the estate to inspect the flushing of the tea 
and to decide which tract should first submit to the 
process known as plucking, or he was down in the 
factory, watching the men at work, stemming any 
tendency to indolence or inattention on the part of 
Mr. Brett, the conductor, or the coolies. If one 
passed the factory one could often hear his rough 
unpleasant voice raised in anger or contempt. And 
Rebecca was almost always occupied in looking 
after Hilary. She was at best a silent woman who 
preferred not to talk, and thus Viola was thrown 
on her own meager resources. She had few books, 
and Matthew’s were of the most ancient old- 
fashioned kind, smelling of mold and partially eaten 
by white ants. 

At such times as these—wild fierce days and 
nights of storm and tempest and rain—Viola had 
to remind herself diligently of all she owed to 
Matthew. She had little in common with him. He 
prided himself upon speaking his mind, and some¬ 
times it seemed to her that he did not wound her 
with a sword but with some blunt-edged weapon. 
Her nerves were often rasped by his harsh, loud, 
dictatorial voice. Yet he had given her a shelter, 
a refuge, she mustn’t forget that. It wasn’t so easy 


VIOLA HUDSON 


273 

for a woman placed as she was, to find a home. 
And as long as he consented to keep her at Kellioya, 
so long would she remain. She had hoped to save 
a little against the day of departure, but he had 
allowed no margin for that. She must try and for¬ 
get that she wasn’t yet twenty, and that she was 
wasting the precious years of her youth here in this 
remote part of Ceylon, where she seldom saw the 
face of a white woman except that of the grim 
faithful Rebecca. There was no possibility of her 
hearing Mass, as she had soon discovered to her 
dismay. Sometimes a traveling priest would take 
Kellioya on his rounds, and there was a tiny disused 
church not far from Mr. Keane’s bungalow, where 
Mass was said on those occasions. But his visits 
were few and far between; there were no Catholic 
families among the European residents for many 
miles. 

“Does the priest stay with you when he comes?” 
she asked Matthew one day. 

“Certainly not. Why should he? I’m not a 
Catholic. And Keane always puts him up.” 

“But now I’m here, perhaps you might ask him,” 
she suggested. 

She had a great longing to discuss her present 
situation with a wise understanding priest. 

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Matthew, 
emphatically. 

Viola stood and gazed sometimes at the hills cov¬ 
ered with impenetrable jungle that lay between 
Kellioya and the nearest cart-road—that long stretch 
of eerie jungle where the wild beasts had their 
homes, and the gayly-plumaged birds made their 
nests. It flung its darkness across the hills like a 
mantle, almost up to the doors of the bungalow on 
its east side. When she looked at it, at its mystery, 
its darkness, its impenetrability, she wondered when 
she would ever traverse it again to return to the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


274 

world. She was a prisoner here in Kellioya— 
Matthew’s prisoner. 

Even in fine weather this sense of imprisonment 
did not leave her, for the mountains stood in jealous 
watchful guard around Kellioya, and it was only 
from the western side of the house that she could 
gaze across wide open spaces at the purple moun¬ 
tains lying like islands in seas of delicate turquoise 
mist, at the rolling brown patanas, the shining 
glimpses of a river flowing in the valley between 
deep jungle-clad banks. At sunset the west was 
brilliant with an almost incredible glory of gold 
and crimson, of flashing scarlet, and blue that faded 
to green. The clouds were like floating islands of 
color traveling upon a sea of flame, gorgeous shapes 
that melted at last into that fluid gold that flowed 
over sky and land. But the wonder of it was 
brief, there was scarcely any interval between light 
and darkness; night followed hard upon the disap¬ 
pearance of the sun below the horizon. And in 
fine weather the nights at Kellioya were beautiful 
too, calm, clear, and cool with a divine freshness 
of falling dew. Never even in Italy had Viola seen 
the wide sky so brilliantly patterned wfith stars, and 
sometimes the unfamiliar group of the Southern 
Cross was visible above the pointed gable of the 
bungalow. The air was alive then with strange 
winged things, flying foxes and bats, and great 
moths with flapping wings that were large as birds. 
In the clumps of bamboos myriads of fireflies flitted 
like tiny winged jewels. And later on the jungle 
awoke; its teeming life stole forth, and harsh terri¬ 
fying sounds emanated from its fastnesses, the 
growling purr of the cheetah, the bark of jackals, 
the screech of an owl, the shrill cry of some hunted 
bird or beast escaping from its pursuer. 

Viola used to lie in bed listening to these wild 
and fierce and melancholy sounds. . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


275 

There were no seasons at Kellioya except the 
rainy and the dry, the former fixed by the breaking 
of the monsoon twice yearly. Then day after day 
the heavy rain-wet white clouds drooped like tired 
birds over the mountains, hiding their shapes, and 
sometimes even swallowing up the wide view to the 
west. The Kelli-Oya, usually such a tranquil 
stream falling delicately in spray of crystal light 
over the great bowlders, would be transformed then 
into a mighty rushing river, fierce, tempestuous, 
turbulent, dangerous to cross on account of the 
rapidity of its torrent. And all around the bunga¬ 
low the rain hissed fiercely in the groves of eucalyp¬ 
tus and palm and keena trees. 

But in wet seasons and dry, the mountains kept 
their guard around and above Kellioya, shutting 
it away from the outer world. 

The only people Matthew ever saw were Mr. 
Keane and young Brett. The former, divining that 
he was unwelcome, was not a frequent visitor; and 
the latter lived a lonely life in his little bungalow 
near the river, and though he was often at work in 
the factory, he seldom came to the house. Matthew 
never invited anyone to breakfast or dinner. He 
did not encourage these two men to visit him. He 
kept Viola sedulously under his eye. He was afraid 
that people would discover her shameful little 
story. And if a man fell in love with her, he must 
necessarily, if he wished to marry her, learn the 
truth. 

No—the less she saw of people the better. Al¬ 
ready he suspected young Brett of worshiping her 
from afar. She had really hardly exchanged a 
dozen words with the boy, for whom, however, she 
felt a very deep compassion, realizing that his lone¬ 
liness must be far greater than her own, and was 
probably mingled, too, with a fierce nostalgia for 
his English home. But Matthew had seen her 


VIOLA HUDSON 


276 

speaking to him one day near the factory and had 
told her he “couldn’t have it.” Viola colored with 
anger, but she said nothing. He had a right to dic¬ 
tate to her. As long as she lived under his roof 
she must bow her neck to the yoke. 

Viola was never one to repine, and she did con¬ 
trive to squeeze a certain pleasure from the sweet 
fragrant air, the sunshine, the natural beauties of 
her surroundings, the flowers and birds, the scenery, 
the brilliant sub-tropical vegetation. Matthew felt 
a kind of resentment at seeing her so gay, so girlish, 
so outwardly happy. To hear her rippling laugh 
as she played with Hilary on the lawn! Her joyous 
absorption in Hilary! It was strange, too, that 
she did not seem to dwell upon that hot-headed, re¬ 
bellious, imprudent act of hers, which was bound 
to stain her whole life with its ineradicable smudge 
of dishonor. Yet she knew she had been in the 
wrong; she had acknowledged that much, but there 
was no sign on her part of letting the thought of 
the past poison her present existence. 

Hilary throve in the bright sunny mountain air. 
The best milk from Keane’s little farm found its 
way to Kellioya. The child was more than a year 
old now and was beginning to toddle. She was a 
slight slim creature who promised to be tall. Al¬ 
ready she was self-willed and had a passionate tem¬ 
per. Once Matthew said: 

“You’re spoiling that brat of yours, Viola. If 
you don’t teach her self-control now, you’ll have 
trouble with her by and by.” 

“Oh, she’s too much of a baby to begin to learn 
hard lessons.” 

“Not at all. And you must remember that she 
has hereditary tendencies. Tendencies to deceit— 
to self-indulgence—” 

Viola grew crimson with indignation, but Mat¬ 
thew pursued his iron way remorselessly. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


277 

“It’s only kind to put them down with a strong 
hand.” 

Viola said passionately: “I won’t have her ruled 
by fear. I remember my own childhood too well. 
You can’t imagine what it was like with Aunt Hope. 
And yet she was certain she was only doing her 
duty.” 

“I expect you were a tiresome child. And it was 
her nature to be strict.” 

“Strict? I lived in terror of her!” 

“Well, it was very good of her to undertake you 
at all,” said Matthew, with lively recollections of 
the scene between Mrs. George Hudson and Viola, 
when the period of severity and discipline was a 
thing of the past. No doubt she had needed and 
received correction. 

“There was hardly a day—certainly not a week 
—when I wasn’t punished, even cruelly punished. 
I used to envy other children their happy homes, 
their freedom, their . . . mothers.” Her voice 
grew soft. Never as long as she lived would she 
forget that beautiful comforting maternal presence 
of which she had been deprived so young. “I’m go¬ 
ing to give Hilary a happy childhood. And I won’t 
have her frightened.” 

“Well, when she’s older I shall take her in hand 
myself if it’s necessary,” said Matthew, grimly. 

Viola secretly determined to leave Kellioya be¬ 
fore that day came. Her own flesh seemed to fear 
Matthew then, his rough strength, his bullying 
ways, his loud threatening voice. 

A coolie appeared, approaching the house. From 
his turban he produced an envelope, which he handed 
to Hudson with a deep salaam. 

Matthew opened it and scanned its contents. 
“Brett’s ill,” he said, laconically. Then turning to 
the man, he said curtly in Tamil: “Tell Brett durai 
I shall be there in half an hour.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


278 

“Shall I come with you, Matthew?” said Viola, 
rising too. 

“Come with me? What on earth for?” 

“Well, I might be of use.” 

“What use?” He looked at her with disdain. 
His glance included her dainty white dress and 
shoes, her delicate soft hands. 

“I could nurse him,” she said, simply. “I know 
what to do when people are ill. When you’ve a 
child of your own you learn all that.” 

“In this country we men are accustomed to look¬ 
ing after each other. And we manage wonderfully 
well, considering.” 

“Poor boy—I’m sorry he’s ill,” said Viola. 

It was ridiculous of her to adopt that maternal 
pose, thought Matthew, for Brett was at least two 
years her senior. Of course he looked a mere boy, 
short, slight, undeveloped, insignificant. Quite 
ready too to fall in love with Viola—already he was 
inclined to regard her with a shy boyish worship. 
And he had kept pretty straight these last months— 
that was her influence no doubt. Hers and Keane’s. 
He wondered if Keane knew that Brett was ill. 
But Keane was busy, for he had Sir Garth Bennet 
staying with him now, and was helping him to settle 
in to the big tumbledown bungalow at Madura. 

Matthew put on his solar topee, for the sun was 
still very hot, and strode away across the tea- 
plantation. As he went he stopped from time to 
time to examine the state of the crops. The rain 
last week had brought everything on wonderfully. 
“There’s a decent flush there . . . I’ll have that 
plucked next week,” he said aloud, taking the new 
little growth, bright green and very limp and fragile, 
between his thumb and finger. And then presently: 
“There—they haven’t touched that hill yet and I 
told Brett to begin two days ago. Idle young beg¬ 
gar—I believe his mistakes cost me more than the 



VIOLA HUDSON 


279 

money he pays for being allowed to make them. 
He’ll never be any good.” Musing thus, he arrived 
at the little bungalow more than a mile away where 
Brett lived. 

The forlorn little habitation stood too close to 
the river. Since the rain of two days back, the Kelli- 
Oya had risen considerably, and was still racing 
with turbulent strength over rocks and bowlders, 
flinging lovely showers of silver spray to the blue 
sky. Along its banks the jungle grew thickly; and 
a group of great dark keena-trees bent over it and 
were washed by the high-flung spray. Here and 
there a crimson rhododendron showed its patch of 
flame. Within a few yards of the house an insub¬ 
stantial wooden bridge spanned the river in case 
of necessity, for the Kelli-Oya was easily fordable 
in fine weather. 

Matthew walked along the veranda to the room 
where Brett slept. The wooden shutters were 
closed across the window. He tapped upon them 
with his stick. 

“Are you there, Brett? It’s Hudson.” 

“Please go round by the kitchen,” gasped a weak 
voice from within. 

Matthew threaded his way through the back 
regions and from thence into the bungalow. He en¬ 
tered the boy’s room. It was quite dark, and he 
went across to the window and opened the shutters 
a little so that he could obtain a glimpse of the figure 
lying on the bed, prone and inert under the discol¬ 
ored mosquito-netting. 

“Never saw anything like you young fellows for 
giving in every time you think you’ve got a finger 
ache,” he grumbled. 

Like all very strong powerful men he had a secret 
contempt for illness, and always imagined it was the 
result of some imprudence on the part of the patient. 

Hartley Brett’s head was raised slightly on the 


280 VIOLA HUDSON 

pillows; his face was white; he seemed to be gasping 
for breath. 

“I think I’m done for,” he said, with a sickly 
smile. 

“Rot, man! You’ve probably got a chill and a 
touch of malaria. Some d-d imprudence, I sup¬ 

pose! Taken your temperature?” 

“Haven’t got such a thing as a thermometer,” 
gasped the boy. 

Matthew produced one from his pocket and 
thrust it into Brett’s mouth. 

“Now hold your tongue for a few minutes!” 

Hartley Brett took the thermometer from his 
mouth, said hurriedly, “I wish you’d remember I’m 
not a coolie, Mr. Hudson,” and replaced it. 

“You’re not half as much use as one,” replied 
Matthew, hunching his great shoulders and sitting 
in a rickety chair by the window. 

The room was very hot. In the silence there 
could be heard the faint sustained humming of in¬ 
numerable mosquitoes. 

Presently he rose, took the thermometer from 
Brett’s mouth, and carried it to the window. 

“Whewww,” he whistled, under his breath. But 
Hartley Brett caught the sound. 

“Is it so very high? I told you I was done 
for . . .” 

“It’s high enough. If you’re not better to¬ 
morrow I shall have to ship you off to Nuwara 
Eliya.” 

The big man looked down at the small boyish 
form on the bed. The mosquito-netting made a 
slight veil but he could still see very plainly the 
pallor, the emaciation, the brilliant feverish eyes. 
He thrust in his hand and laid it on the boy’s 
brow. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” said the weak 



VIOLA HUDSON 281 

high voice, “but it isn’t that. Honestly it isn’t. I 
haven’t touched a drop of anything for weeks. 
Ever since Mrs. Mansfield . . .” He stopped. 

Matthew’s face hardened. “What has my sister 
got to do with it?” 

“She didn’t say much, but she was awfully, aw¬ 
fully kind. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? She under¬ 
stood how lonely it was for me here—she was sorry 
for me.” His pale shining eyes were fixed upon 
Matthew, and the weak soft mouth twitched. 

“Well, I’m glad she helped you. But you 
oughtn’t to be such a young ass as to want a wo¬ 
man’s help,” said Hudson, scornfully. 

“I wish she’d come,” said Hartley, “I don’t like 
lying here alone, thinking I might go out at any 
moment. The man’s gone off somewhere to wor¬ 
ship his gods, and there’s no one but the kitchen 
coolie.” 

Matthew relented a little, partly because the high 
temperature had startled him, and partly because 
there was something about the look of Brett which 
he didn’t quite like. He had had a good deal of 
experience of illness in a land where death generally 
comes very suddenly when it does come, and he 
was accustomed to administer a rough and ready 
medical attention to his sick coolies, who had a pro¬ 
found faith in the ability of their white master to 
heal. 

“Well, I’ll see about it,” he said; “it may be too 
late for her to come to-night, but perhaps she could 
look in, in the morning.” 

Brett closed his eyes, and a look of quiet content 
came into his worn young face. He was an only 
son, and he missed his mother, who had fussed over 
him and adored him all his life. He had been sent 
out to Ceylon to learn tea-planting because an old 
uncle of his had interests in the island, and it was 


282 


VIOLA HUDSON 


hoped that if he showed any ability he might here¬ 
after be employed in looking after them. 

A weak invertebrate creature, thought Matthew, 
ready to give in at the first symptom of illness. Too 
young to take care of himself. And perhaps he was 
missing the stimulant he had so drastically knocked 
off, because of something Viola had said to him. 
Matthew had nothing but contempt for a man who 
permitted himself to be influenced by a woman. A 
woman in his eyes was little better than a child, and 
wanted nearly as much discipline. 

He stayed with Brett until Keane arrived, after 
a busy day spent over at Madura. Keane was ac¬ 
companied by a servant, who brought various nour¬ 
ishing things in a basket. There was some fruit, 
soda-water, jelly and milk. His curiously gentle 
presence in the sick-room made a strange contrast 
to Hudson’s rough methods, and yet it was Matthew 
who had brought a gleam of hope and happiness 
back to the sick boy. The blessed knowledge that 
on the morrow perhaps Mrs. Mansfield would 
come! . . . 

As Matthew approached the bungalow on his re¬ 
turn, he saw Viola standing on the path at the foot 
of the steps. Her white figure detached itself from 
the dusky background of green. A spray of scarlet 
geranium touched her skirt with a vivid blot of 
color. It struck Matthew that she was waiting for 
him, anxious perhaps to hear what news he should 
bring of Hartley Brett. Again his suspicions were 
aroused. There was evidently a friendliness be¬ 
tween them of which he knew nothing. When had 
she found an opportunity of speaking to him? And 
he was asking for her. Would it be wise to let her 
go? Wouldn’t it be better to ship him off to Nu- 
wara Eliya, where he would have good nursing, a 
doctor’s advice? 

“Well?” said Viola. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


283 

“He’s pretty bad. High fever and such a pulse! 
And he thinks he’s done for. But they always do— 
these weedy little chaps with the physique of a rat.” 

Her face grew grave. “Poor boy. I think I’d 
really better go to him, Matthew. He oughtn’t to 
be left with just his native servants. You know 
how difficult it is to wake them when anything’s 
wanted. And I could sit up with him.” 

“I really believe you’d better,” said Hudson. 
“Of course in a way I’m responsible.” Then he 
added abruptly: “Don’t be too soft with him. The 
young fool’s in love with you, as it is!” 

She looked at him sharply. “In love with me? 
What utter nonsense, Matthew!” 

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know!” he flung at 
her in an exasperated tone. 

She gave him a quick startled look, then she 
turned and went indoors. She wasn’t going to give 
him time to change his mind. She meant to go to 
young Brett at once. She rightly guessed that he 
must be very ill indeed or Matthew would never 
have given his consent. But of course it would look 
better, supposing anything happened, if he could 
tell Mrs. Brett that he had done all he could—his 
sister, Mrs. Mansfield, had nursed her son. He had 
had every care. . . . But alas, the care should have 
been given long ago. The boy was too young, too 
utterly inexperienced to look after himself. 

“Rebecca, you must have Hilary to-night. Put 
her crib in your room. I’m going over to nurse 
Mr. Brett, he’s very ill.” 

“Couldn’t I go instead, ma’am?” asked Rebecca. 

“No—it seems he asked for me. I’d better take 
a hot bottle—a spirit lamp—just a few things. 
You must help me to put them together.” 

As she made ready for the little expedition she re¬ 
membered that this would be the first night she.had 
ever spent away from Hilary since the child’s birth. 


284 


VIOLA HUDSON 


CHAPTER V 

W HEN she was ready, Viola returned to the 
veranda. Matthew was waiting for her. 
It was a lovely evening with the prospect of a bril¬ 
liant sunset. Already a golden light was flowing 
over the jungle, weaving wonderful patterns upon 
its monotonous gray-green darkness. 

“I’ll walk with you,” said Hudson. He was still 
feeling exceedingly uneasy, and did not wish to be 
left alone with his own thoughts. 

As usual he walked on ahead of her, kicking at 
the shining bits of quartz with which the pathway 
was strewn. When the sun touched them they 
gleamed like diamonds. 

As the brother and sister walked on, the blue 
dusk deepened about them. They had to descend 
into a valley to reach the bungalow, and in this nar¬ 
row gorge the sun’s rays had already ceased to pene¬ 
trate and a sense of chill prevailed. A certain damp¬ 
ness came up from the river, and twisted below 
them like a pale scarf of mist. The moon showed 
above a group of darkly etched keena-trees whose 
soft pine-like foliage was brushed delicately against 
the sky. In the distance the liquid murmur of the 
frogs’ chorus sounded its strange monotonous 
melody. 

As they approached Brett’s bungalow they saw 
two figures standing in the veranda. One of them 
was Keane. He came quickly toward them, greeted 
Hudson, and held out his hand to Viola. 

“It’s most awfully good of you to come, Mrs. 
Mansfield.” 

Behind him stood a young man, dark, thin, pale, 
with haggard eyes. 

“I want to introduce Sir Garth Bennet to you,” 
added Keane, indicating this second figure. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


285 

Garth Bennet came down the steps of the veranda 
and shook hands with the brother and sister. From 
his great height he looked down upon Viola. What 
an apparition in this remote, desolate district! 
Mrs. Mansfield . . . Keane had spoken of her 
sometimes, but he had not been prepared to find 
anyone so youthful. She looked a mere slip of a 
girl in that white muslin dress that hung so limply 
about her figure. 

“How is he, Mr. Keane?” Viola asked. 

“Well, Fm afraid he’s pretty bad. Doesn’t al¬ 
ways know what he’s saying. But there’s often de¬ 
lirium with that very high fever.” 

All this time Garth was silent. It seemed incred¬ 
ible, so ran his thoughts, that Mrs. Mansfield could 
really be the sister of that great hulking brute, 
Hudson. Why did she live with him? Was she 
happy at Kellioya, shut away from all the world? 
Keane had spoken of a child, but he hadn’t paid 
much attention. He must ask him to tell him more 
about her, and find out why she was living at 
Kellioya. 

Viola went along the veranda into Brett’s room 
accompanied by Matthew. When they had disap¬ 
peared Garth turned to Keane. 

“What a perfectly lovely face!” he said, care¬ 
lessly. “Is she a widow?” 

“No—separated from her husband. But Hud¬ 
son’s a very close chap—I don’t know any details.” 

“Didn’t you say there was a child? She looks 
most awfully young.” 

“She isn’t twenty or only just. But her little girl 
is already more than a year old.” 

“I wonder why she lives here?” 

“I’ve wondered too.” 

“Perhaps,” said Garth, cautiously, “she wants 
to hide.” 

“That may be. But I doubt it.” 


286 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“No one would find her here,” said Garth, in his 
melancholy voice. He had been very unhappy since 
the death of his young wife. 

Keane echoed: “No one.” 

Garth lit a cigarette. Presently he said: “You 
didn’t prepare me for anything quite so dazzling.” 
He gave an embarrassed laugh. 

“I didn’t try to prepare you,” said Keane, frankly. 
“Old Hudson’s a queer cross-grained curmudgeon, 
and he won’t even let people see her if he can 
help it.” 

“Well, I intend to see her,” said Garth, calmly. 

“You’ll have no end of a row with Hudson if 
you do try to,” said Keane, in a grave warning tone. 

“Why doesn’t she get a divorce?” 

“Can’t. She’s a Catholic.” 

“A Catholic?” 

“Yes.” 

“But Hudson isn’t, is he? Or perhaps her hus¬ 
band— ?” 

“No—I don’t think she became one on her mar¬ 
riage. She was adopted by a fanatical aunt, so the 
story goes, who insisted upon bringing her up a 
Roman.” 

“Is the child like her?” 

“Not a bit! But it’s the darlingest little thing. 
Mrs. Mansfield adores it. It’s quite pretty to see 
them together, but unfortunately it’s difficult to ob¬ 
tain a glimpse.” 

Garth Bennet flung away his cigarette. 

“How unfair,” he said. “Unfair in every way. 
First that she should be buried alive at Kellioya, 
and secondly that she shouldn’t be able to get a 
divorce and marry again.” 

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to. I think myself 
there must be a sad story behind it all,” said Keane. 

“She doesn’t look exactly sad,” said Bennet. 

He felt injured because Keane had not prepared 


VIOLA HUDSON 


287 

him for this unusual vision of youth and beauty, or 
he would certainly have made a point of calling at 
Kellioya. Of Matthew Hudson he had heard 
nothing pleasant, and had therefore felt that the 
pleasure of making his acquaintance could usefully 
be postponed. 

When Hudson emerged from the sick-room dusk 
had fallen, and the fireflies were illuminating with 
myriads of tiny lamps the great clump of bamboos 
outside. The three men sat smoking almost in 
silence. They could hear the voice of the river as 
it dashed turbulently along its rocky course; the 
croaking of the vast army of frogs, the sound, shrill 
and rasping, of the “scissor-grinder.” Flying foxes 
flew past, and sometimes a great moth flapped its 
wide wings as it came toward the light that showed 
from the bungalow. 

“My sister’s going to stay here to-night,” said 
Matthew, at last. “He must have someone—he 
can’t be left. If he got delirious he might hurt 
himself.” 

“But she won’t be alone with him?” inquired 
Garth, speaking to Matthew for the first time. 

“No—I shall sleep here. She’ll call me if she 
wants help. I shall stay till it’s time to go back 
to muster.” 

“And what time’s that?” Garth asked. 

“Six,” said Matthew, laconically. He wondered 
idly why Garth Bennet was questioning him so 
closely. “I shall have to leave at half past five,” 
he added. 

“Hartley ought to go home,” said Keane, sud¬ 
denly. “I’ve thought so for a long time past. I 
know he’s made great efforts to keep steady lately, 
but the life here isn’t fit for a young boy. He’s 
backward and undeveloped for his age. It s a pity 
they ever sent him out.” 


■288. VIOLA HUDSON 

“I don’t agree with you,” said Matthew, “there’s 
no reason why he shouldn’t have turned out an 
efficient planter if he’d been steady and stuck to 
his job.” 

“Well, apparently that’s just what he couldn’t 
do,” said Keane, “and I hope his mother will send 
for him. He ought to go home after a bout of 
this kind.” 

“Oh, a few weeks in Nuwara Eliya will set him 
up,” said Matthew, confidently. 

“Well, Bennet, we must be pushing off,” said 
Keane, rising. “I’ll look in some time to-morrow 
and see how he’s getting on, and relieve your sister 
from her watch. We mustn’t let her wear herself 
out.” 

He and Garth Bennet shook hands with Matthew 
and left the bungalow. They walked over the frail 
little wooden bridge that spanned the Kelli-Oya. 
Garth’s thoughts were full of Mrs. Mansfield. He 
had hoped to get another glimpse of that lovely 
perfect face before leaving. It had been a disap¬ 
pointment to him when Matthew had reappeared 
alone. 

The meeting with Viola had marked a significant 
epoch in his life, and thus it could not fail to impress 
him. His wife had been dead nearly two years, 
and this was the first time he had felt even vaguely 
interested in another woman. He w T as still jealous 
for that past grief, had believed that he must prove 
the exception to the general rule, and that for him 
Time would carry no alms for oblivion. He was 
almost angry to find now, that he had a real and in¬ 
tense desire to see Viola again. To see her alone, 
to talk to her in friendly intimacy, to hear something 
of her story. Matthew Eludson was a great clumsy 
brute whom surely it would be easy to circumvent. 

“I don’t care much for that chap Hudson,” he 
said. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


289 

“Oh, he’s not really a bad sort. A roughish dia¬ 
mond.” 

“Does he pay Brett?” 

“No, Brett pays him. Stiffish premium, you 
know. Hudson’s very close-fisted.” 

“Is the boy well off?” 

“No, but he’s got prospects out here if he gets 
on well. I here’s an old uncle with an estate Dim- 
bula way—he’ll want a manager for it later on. 
Unfortunately poor Hartley’s got this little weak¬ 
ness, and he’s been desperately unhappy and lonely 
out here. I’ve had him on my mind for some time 
past, but it’s difficult to say anything to Hudson, as 
you must have noticed.” 

His eyes wandered toward the group of gray- 
green keena-trees, whose boughs were brushed 
against the night-sky. 

Garth was silent. For him the little bungalow, 
set so far from other human dwellings, alone in this 
vast mountainous region of tea-estates, had suddenly 
become invested with a warm and rich glow of ro¬ 
mance. He thought he should never forget that 
evening, with the murmur of the Kelli-Oya, splash¬ 
ing over the great gray bowlders with a hiss of silver 
spray; the whisper of the trees in the jungle as the 
wind passed lightly over them; the scent of the 
earth dew-drenched and mingled with the strong 
perfume of the cinchona; the starry sky; and 
Viola Mansfield’s soft presence, mysterious, beauti¬ 
ful. Her voice, that he had heard but once, before 
she vanished into the shadows of the sick-room. 

He couldn’t even feel very sorry for poor young 
Hartley Brett. To be tended in this wilderness by 
such a woman as that. . . . He must see her again 
—he must discover if there was really no way out 
for a girl of twenty who had been caught in a most 
cruel trap. 

When the two men had gone, Matthew went 


VIOLA HUDSON 


290 

back to the sick-room. He hadn’t cared much for 
Garth Bennet. Too much swagger and self-impor¬ 
tance, and the easy assurance of his manner had 
annoyed Hudson. He was very sorry too that he 
had seen Viola. Matthew was obsessed now with 
the idea that Viola was a flirt, that she made every 
man who saw her, fall a little in love with her. She 
was just the woman, he felt, to be duped and led 
into paths of folly. But he meant her to remain at 
Kellioya. She would have to obey him, and he in¬ 
tended to keep a strict watch over her. If she had 
been a little younger, a little less independent, he 
would have set about breaking her spirit. But 
there was something in Viola which he had not yet 
been able to measure, a subtle strength that had 
made her triumph so wonderfully over her past mis¬ 
takes and sins and failures. 

“You shall do the easiest bit,” he told her. “You 
shall keep watch till two o’clock. After that, I’ll 
come and relieve you, and I’ll wake you when I go 
to muster.” 

“Oh, Matthew, do let me do it all. You’ll be 
tired, and you’ve got your work.” 

Matthew’s bushy shaggy brows met across his 
face. Beneath them the red-brown eyes looked sud¬ 
denly ferocious. 

“You’ll do just as you’re told, if you please,” he 
said, in his harsh dictatorial tone. 

Viola submitted. After all, it was never worth 
while arguing with Matthew, he generally ended by 
losing his temper and saying all kinds of wounding 
bruising things. After nearly ten months at Kelli¬ 
oya, Viola had learnt to give in quickly and grace¬ 
fully. She accepted the hard part of her lot for 
Hilary’s sake. 

After a light meal prepared by Hartley’s kitchen 
coolie, Matthew went to bed, and Viola took up her 
post in Brett’s room. The night was very sultry, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


291 

and scarcely a breath of air crept through the 
wooden shutters. There was no punkah, for up- 
country such things are seldom necessary, the nights 
being often very chilly. All through those hours of 
watching, the mosquitoes hummed and buzzed—it 
was strange that such filmily-fashioned creatures 
should be capable of emitting such appreciable and 
sustained sounds. Viola had put back the curtains 
a little and was fanning Brett, this not only helped 
to keep his head cool but prevented the pests from 
stinging his face. 

He tossed restlessly from side to side, muttering. 

Hudson . . . she caught the name, and leaned 
forward a little, curious to hear what he would say 
of Matthew. Hudson ... he hated him ... an 
old skin-flint, exacting his pound of flesh. Not a 
creeper in Ceylon worked as he did, week in, week 
out, never a holiday. Never any fun. . . . The 
Kelli-Oya—curse it!—he was sick of its sound. . . . 
Roaring just outside the window . . . But that 
sister of Hudson’s! Why didn’t she come? Hud¬ 
son had promised that she should. But of course 
he would not let her. She was in prison too. No 
one was ever allowed to see her. Hudson didn’t 
know that he’d run out to speak to her sometimes 
when he’d seen her go past the factory. He would 
be angry if he knew. He kept her under lock and 
key—everyone said so. He wouldn’t let people 
see her if he could help it. No one in the district, 
not even old Keane, had ever talked to her alone. 

Viola listened, and as she listened a kind of dull 
despair invaded her heart. She seemed to be look¬ 
ing at Matthew and envisaging him through this 
boy’s sick delirious eyes. But it was quite true. 
She was a prisoner, kept under lock and key. No 
one was allowed to speak to her alone. Matthew 
suspected her, watched her. A recluse himself, he 
insisted that she should also be one. Of course she 


VIOLA HUDSON 


292 

could go away, she was in a sense free. But whither 
could she go? She used to look at the map some¬ 
times and wonder which of all the places marked 
upon it would be most friendly and least hostile to 
a woman left alone with an illegitimate child. . . . 

If they knew the truth about Hilary, perhaps 
they wouldn’t blame Matthew so bitterly for keep¬ 
ing her “under lock and key.” After all, he had 
given her a home, grudgingly of course, but still it 
was an efficient shelter, and she liked, in her happy 
moods, the generous sunshine, the prodigal blossom¬ 
ing, the fragrance and the loveliness that so sur¬ 
rounded her. You couldn’t be so very unhappy 
when the sun shone all day long, almost all the year 
round, from skies so brilliantly blue; and there was 
that wonderful vision of mountain tops and seas 
of blue mist, of gray-green jungle garmenting the 
hills, and the rolling downs burnt brown by the 
sun, always visible if one took the trouble to walk 
across the lawn and through the grove of eucalyptus 
trees. But in return for that grudgingly given hos¬ 
pitality Matthew exacted the greater part of her 
income. She found she couldn’t even count on that 
hundred a year. Rebecca or Hilary had broken or 
spoilt something, and it must be replaced. He 
couldn’t have Rebecca ruining the house with her 
careless improvident ways. She must pay—it would 
give her a lesson—idle good-for-nothing woman, 
eating her head off. And of course in the end the 
money came out of Viola’s own pocket. She knew 
by this time her brother’s ruling passion. “An old 
skin-flint—exacting his pound of flesh.” Did Brett 
—did Mr. Keane—did all the world know of it, 
too? 

She looked at Brett, at the white face, the weak 
soft girlish mouth, the receding chin, the wisps of 
lank fair hair. He oughtn’t to be here alone, neg¬ 
lected, forlorn. Something that was very maternal 


VIOLA HUDSON 


293 

characterized her feeling for him at that moment. 
She had wanted often to show him a little quite ordi¬ 
nary kindness, such as inviting him to tea or dinner 
with them at Kellioya. But she knew such a sugges¬ 
tion would only have provoked a rude sneering re¬ 
fusal from Matthew. 

From time to time she gave Brett something cool 
to drink. She raised the boy’s head when it fell over 
sideways, and arranged the pillows with skilful 
hands. He was quiet now and seemed to slumber. 
The air was sensibly fresher. She stopped fanning 
him and pulled down the mosquito curtains so as to 
protect him. At last from sheer weariness she 
closed her eyes. 

She awoke with a start. Matthew was standing 
near her, a huge, motionless figure. 

“Go and lie down now,” he whispered. 

“Oh, Matthew—it’s too soon. Do let me watch 
a little longer. I’m not tired.” 

Matthew waved his hand toward the door with 
an authoritative gesture. Viola rose, feeling a little 
dizzy from her long watching, the absence of proper 
sleep. “Call me when you have to go to muster, 
Matthew,” she said, with a faint smile. 

His eyes watched her as she went out of the room. 

It was scarcely dawn when Matthew knocked at 
the door of the bedroom. Viola rose and opened it. 
She had put on a loose white wrapper, and her long 
hair was falling like a dense dark cloud about her 
shoulders. 

“She looks about fifteen,” thought Matthew. 

He was fully dressed in his ill-made veranda-built 
cotton suit, and with his broad pith helmet on his 
head. 

“You’ll find tea in the veranda,” he told her. 
“I must be off now. But I’ll send someone over to 
set you free as soon as I can. He’s on the mend 


294 VIOLA HUDSON 

I should say by the look of him. He’s had a quiet 
night.” 

“I shall be ready in a few minutes, Matthew,, and 
then I ll go to him,” she said. 

“You might give him a cup of tea. He’ll want 
something. And if Keane comes over, you can leave 
at once. It’s no good having too many people 
hanging about.” 

“Very well, Matthew,” she said. 

She shut the door and began to make a hasty 
toilette. Outside, the birds were chirping in the 
grove of keena-trees. The river had subsided, and 
its restrained murmur held a cool pleasant sound. 
There was a delicious and invigorating quality in the 
early morning air, such as is perhaps only felt in 
mountain regions. It seemed to bring new life to 
the new day that was so soon to be filled with hours 
and hours of fierce sunshine. 


CHAPTER VI 

0 

W HEN Viola was dressed, she went into the 
veranda, and found tea awaiting her—that 
little meal with which every European inhabitant 
of Ceylon begins the day. There was a loaf of 
bread and a tin of English-made raspberry jam. 
Viola ate very little, she was not hungry and the 
loaf was hard and stale. She drank two cups of 
tea and then carried some to Mr. Brett. He was 
awake, and she supported him with one arm while 
she held the cup to his lips with her other hand. 
Brett drank thirstily. 

“Thanks very much,” he muttered. He turned 
over on his side and seemed to sleep again. 

Viola went back to the veranda. To her aston¬ 
ishment she saw a man sitting there, and at first she 


VIOLA HUDSON 


295 

thought that Matthew must have returned. But 
when he turned his head she saw it was not 
Matthew. It was the young man who had been 
there with Mr. Keane last night—Sir Garth Bennet. 

It was scarcely six o’clock and she was surprised 
to see him at such an early hour. 

He rose and came toward her. “Good-morning, 
Mrs. Mansfield. How is Brett this morning?” 

“Matthew thinks he’s on the mend,” she an¬ 
swered; “I’ve just given him a cup of tea.” 

“You must be tired,” said Garth, in a voice of 
winning sweetness. 

“Oh, no, I only sat up till a little after one. 
Then my brother relieved me.” 

Still, she was very pale and looked as if she had 
not slept at all. Round her eyes, faintly hollowed, 
there were little purple stains. By morning light, 
he decided, she looked her twenty years. Girlish 
in aspect, her expression was mature. Yet her face 
was quite without bitterness or disillusionment. It 
was calm and serene, even happy. So she had 
learned to accept the grim past whatever it had 
been, too thankful perhaps that it was past, to 
trouble her head greatly about it. 

“I will go and get you a cup. I expect you’d 
like some tea.” 

She vanished through a doorway. Presently she 
returned with cup, saucer, and plate, all in a slightly 
damaged condition.” 

“Poor boy, his place is not what you’d call well 
found,” she said, pouring out a cup of the strong 
new tea that has a peculiar aroma and richness of 
flavor which never fully survive packing and trans¬ 
portation. 

Bennet drank the tea with evident relish. What 
charming hands she had, he thought, neither too 
large nor too small. Such white capable cared-for 
hands. The slender steady fingers ... on one of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


29 6 

them she wore a wedding ring. He could not help 
wondering what manner of man had placed it there 
—some fool or knave who did not know how to 
keep the treasure he had won. . . . 

He had risen early and come across a mile of 
dew-drenched tea bushes to secure this interview 
with her. He had heard Matthew say last night 
at what hour he must leave to go to muster. And 
he had crept out almost before it was light, afraid 
that Keane would hear him, for he was still staying 
with him until Madura was ready. 

Bennet had been secretly astonished at his own 
zest for the adventure. He would have felt as 
disappointed as a schoolboy if anything had inter¬ 
vened to prevent him from coming. He desperately 
wanted to see Mrs. Mansfield alone, to talk to her, 
to make friends. For of course they must become 
friends—two young people, alone and sad, in this 
solitude. Both having lost something that once had 
been dear. All very well for elderly men like Hud¬ 
son and Keane to live without society and amuse¬ 
ment and recreation, but he couldn’t stand that sort 
of thing himself. 

“We must be friends,’’ he thought. Keane had 
warned him that Hudson wouldn’t let anyone even 
see his sister if he could help it, but he meant to cir¬ 
cumvent him. 

He drank his tea in silence. When he had fin¬ 
ished he offered her a cigarette. Viola shook her 
head and laughed. 

“No, thanks—I used to smoke when I was in 
Italy. Everyone does, you know. But if I were to 
do it here, Matthew would have a fit.” 

“Do you always do as he wishes?” asked Garth, 
boldly. 

“Almost always.” 

“You must find it very lonely at Kellioya?” 

“I don’t mind. You see, I’ve got my baby.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


297 

“My son is six years old,” said Garth. He added 
pensively: “He has no mother—my wife died nearly 
two years ago.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you,” said Viola, with sud¬ 
den sympathy. 

“It was pretty awful,” he said. “And one hates 
to feel that a grief like that—a grief that simply 
cuts your life in two—can ever grow less.” 

“But it does grow less,” she said, softly. “Even 
wounds that are worse to bear than great sorrows 
seem to get better in time.” Her face wore a melan¬ 
choly, brooding look. 

She rose abruptly then and went back to Brett’s 
room, as if she had heard some sound emanating 
therefrom. Garth, who had heard nothing, felt 
annoyed at her departure. He had a great longing 
to tell her about his wife, of whom he seldom spoke 
even to his relations and intimate friends. 

From Brett’s room he could hear the low mur¬ 
mur of voices. So the boy was awake. 

Garth did not stir. It was delicious here with 
the fresh scents and dewy fragrance of the morning 
filling that divinely pure air. The sound of the 
Kelli-Oya was like a soft, sustained, musical accom¬ 
paniment. Above the strip of jungle a great hawk 
was poised against the blue. 

Of course it was a pity, he reflected, to ruin such 
scenery as this with these ugly symmetrical rows 
of tea, the neat little bushes with their glossy pol¬ 
ished leaves and their white innocent flowers that 
somehow reminded him of very pale wild roses. 
Coffee was a much prettier shrub, and cacao the 
prettiest of all. 

A number of coolies, men, women and children, 
had begun to work on the opposite hill. They were 
under the leadership of a colored foreman, an Eu¬ 
rasian, who wore a cotton suit and a pith helmet and 
shouted instructions to them. Soon they were dis- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


298 

persed over the hillside, plucking the young tender 
shoots and dropping them into their round deep 
baskets. As they worked they chattered, and some¬ 
times they sang the melancholy crooning coolie- 
songs of the east, that were like some wild primeval 
music, with a regular, rhythmic, monotonous beat. 
He could see the turbaned heads of the men, the 
glossy dark hair of the women, a flash of scarlet or 
yellow loosely draping a lithe brown body. 

Garth appreciated the little scene. A pleasant 
way this of working, of earning the few cents that 
were sufficient for the daily measure of rice. These 
people were very simple and hardy; they had re¬ 
duced the necessities of life to a minimum. Rough 
dwellings with mud floor and thatched roof sufficed 
them for shelter, a handful of rice eaten once or 
at most twice daily with perhaps a banana or two 
for food, while their scanty apparel did not cover 
much less clothe their slim active brown bodies. But 
they were for the most part happy and contented, 
were well looked after in sickness by their Euro¬ 
pean employers, and enjoyed a healthy open air 
life in a beautiful climate. 

Garth began to think of his newly-acquired estate 
of Madura. It was situated in one of the most 
fertile spots in Ceylon, and though the land had suf¬ 
fered from the neglect and poverty of its late owner, 
Deepham, Garth possessed the necessary capital 
with which to develop it and sufficient command of 
his time to spend at least half the year there super¬ 
intending the work. He couldn’t make his home al¬ 
together in the island because of his boy Kenneth, 
whom he particularly wished to educate entirely in 
England. When he was grown up he could come 
out on a visit, but for many years to come he would 
be in the throes of a course of education that must 
necessarily fill his life to the brim. Garth v/as proud 
of his son, of his good looks, his clever intelligent 


VIOLA HUDSON 


299 

ways, even of his affection for himself, which was 
already of a peculiarly clinging quality, as if he 
almost understood that he was all in all to his re¬ 
maining parent. Kenneth was probably asking his 
grandmother and aunts every day when “Daddy” 
was going to return. 

Garth had decided to plant a certain amount of 
his land with rubber. Even in the early ’nineties 
far-seeing men were beginning to realize that there 
was a future for this resilient commodity. Coffee 
had failed many years ago; the tea that had taken 
its place had been over-produced and was fetching 
low prices in the great markets of the world; but 
rubber promised an abundant harvest. The island 
was very rich, very fertile, very fruitful; hadn’t the 
Portuguese said in the old days that it would be 
better for them to lose all their colonial possessions 
than the little island of Lanka, that ‘Eden of the 
Eastern Wave’ with its jewels, its cinnamon, and 
ivory, its cardamoms, camphor and cocoanuts? 

Garth liked Ceylon; he enjoyed the brilliant sun¬ 
shine, the cool crisp early morning air in these moun¬ 
tain fastnesses, the wonderful starry nights. That 
delicious rarefied air on the heights gave one a 
pleasant bracing sense of renewal each day. Yes, 
he meant to get things going soon, to work, to suc¬ 
ceed, to forget. . . . Somehow he had never felt 
so hopeful, so sure of success, as he did this morning. 

He was so deep in these dreams that he did not 
even hear Viola as she came toward him. She 
looked frightened. 

“It’s odd. He seemed better at first. Now he 
doesn’t know me. . . . Will you come ?” 

Garth followed her into the little bare gloomy 
room with its dilapidated teak furniture, its worn 
strips of cocoanut matting. 

Young Brett was lying on the bed, very still and 


3 oo VIOLA HUDSON 

pale. There was a curious waxen look on his face 
and the lips were slightly blue. 

“I don’t like the look of him, do you?” she whis¬ 
pered. “And I can hardly feel his pulse. Oh, do 
you think we could send for someone—Matthew or 
Mr. Keane?” 

“We might send one of the servants. I couldn’t 
leave you alone here,” said Garth. He too felt 
alarmed; something of her anxiety had communi¬ 
cated itself to him. He laid his finger on young 
Brett’s wrist; the pulse was scarcely discernible. 

Viola bent over him. 

“Mr. Brett—Hartley!” she said. 

Her clear ringing voice seemed to penetrate 
across the boy’s dazed senses. He opened his eyes. 

“Mrs. Mansfield . . . how kind of you to 
come. . . .” 

“I want you to say a little prayer after me,” she 
said. 

“A prayer?” 

“Yes, an act of contrition—of sorrow for all the 
things you’ve ever done to offend Almighty God.” 

“Contrition?” He looked at her with sick, hag¬ 
gard gaze. But he was conscious and was perhaps 
aware that her request was an unusual one. 

“I’ve never been much of a hand at praying,” he 
said, apologetically. 

“Well, I want you to pray now. It’s quite short. 
Say the words after me.” Her voice held a note 
of authority. 

She knelt down and crossed herself: “O my 
God ...” 

“O my God,” came the weak voice from the bed. 

“I am very sorry that I have sinned against Thee 
because Thou art so good, and by the help of Thy 
Holy Grace I will never sin again. Amen.” 

Hartley Brett uttered each phrase after her 
with a curious mechanical precision. “By the help 


VIOLA HUDSON 


301 

of Thy Holy Grace I will never sin again. Amen.” 

“Now the Act of Faith.” 

The brief simple acts of faith, hope and charity 
were each in turn repeated. Hartley’s voice was 
growing strangely weak; it seemed an effort to him 
to obey. But his glittering eyes were fixed upon 
Viola’s face. 

“Now just one little prayer more, dear Hartley. 
Most Sacred Heart of Jesus y I trust in Thee.” 

A light film glazed the boy’s blue eyes, his lips 
moved, and he even uttered the words, Most Sacred 
Heart of Jesus . . . then the voice failed. His 
head fell backward. Viola signed to Garth to draw 
near. 

4 

“He’s gone,” she whispered. There were tears 
in her eyes. She knelt down again and prayed, her 
face hidden in her hands. 

When she rose she was pale and composed. 
“Would you go to our bungalow and tell Matthew, 
and ask my maid Rebecca to come? I don’t like 
to bother you, but I shall want help.” 

“Oh, but you simply can’t be left,” he blurted out, 
astonished at her calm. The sudden passing of this 
boy whom he scarcely knew, had shaken even him 
a little. 

“Oh, I’m all right. I must pray for him, you 
know.” 

“Pray? Now that he’s dead?” 

“Yes, more than ever, now he’s dead. Oh, please 
be as quick as you can. ... I was afraid the heart 
was failing—I could hardly feel his pulse.” 

Garth touched her hand almost awkwardly. 
“I’m sure you were a great comfort to him,” he 
said. “He was quite happy—he didn’t seem to 
want anything—to miss anything. And then pray¬ 
ing to the last. . . .” 

He hurried out of the room. The words of that 
last prayer which poor young Brett hadn’t been able 


VIOLA HUDSON 


302 

to finish rang in his head, full of the strange solem¬ 
nity of the hour. 

“Most Sacred Heart of Jesus I trust in Thee.” 
He thought they sounded a note of high, secure 
courage and confidence. He wished he had known 
of them in the hour of his own supreme desola¬ 
tion. . . . 


CHAPTER VII 

V IOLA and Rebecca had hardly completed their 
sad task when Matthew Hudson appeared. 
He had been working that morning in a distant part 
of the estate and the news had not reached him at 
once. He arrived at the little bungalow almost 
simultaneously with Mr. Keane. 

To Matthew the sudden death of his “creeper” 
had been a severe shock, and he was not free from 
self-reproach. He had been a hard taskmaster to 
the dead boy, had crowded work upon him, refusing 
to give him the holidays and relaxation that were 
necessary for him if he was to learn to endure his 
lonely life. Day after day he had risen soon after 
five to be present at muster, more than a mile away, 
and he had done this up to the very morning when 
his illness had taken an acute form. No doubt he 
must have been ailing for some time past and had 
not dared to beg for a few days’ leave of absence. 
And in his solitude and misery he had neglected him¬ 
self, drinking too much at times, and eating insuffi¬ 
cient and unnourishing food, consisting, for the most 
part, of the contents of tins. 

Well, he would have to write and tell his mother, 
Matthew reflected ruefully. He hoped Keane 
would be prudent and discreet in his letter of con¬ 
dolence. Perhaps he had already written to warn 
her that her son was not getting on too well in Cey¬ 
lon, and if so she might blame Matthew for not 


VIOLA HUDSON 303 

having sent him home long ago for a change. Still, 
he was thankful that he would be able to say in his 
letter: “We were with him all night. My sister 
was there when he died.” The heart had failed 
suddenly and unexpectedly—Hartley had never 
looked as if he possessed the stamina of a rat. The 
work and the climate, combined with solitude and 
a too frequent recourse to the whisky-bottle, had 
proved too much for his naturally frail constitution. 

It was Sir Garth Bennet who had brought 
Matthew the news, arriving breathlessly upon what 
was known as Combe Down (thus named by a 
native of Bath who had once owned it) after he 
had left the message for Rebecca at Kellioya. 

Bennet’s arrival had been a disagreeable surprise, 
and had revealed to Matthew that he must have 
gone over to poor Brett’s bungalow at an early 
hour. Hudson seldom liked his fellow-men, and he 
had taken an instinctive dislike to the young owner 
of Madura. Too much swank and swagger—just 
because he had private means and a title. Super¬ 
cilious too in his manner. But startled and shocked 
—one could see that—and eager that Hudson 
should go at once to Mrs. Mansfield’s assistance. 
She was alone—she had begged him to go for her 
maid—he had left word at Kellioya-—and then had 
come to find Matthew himself. 

All this in a voice that shook a little with emo¬ 
tion; his nerves had suffered somewhat from the 

shock. 

Matthew stood there listening, his great powerful 
figure outlined against a background of gray-green 
jungle. There was no sign of emotion on his heavy 
face. But his little ferocious eyes snapped as they 
peered at Bennet from beneath the shaggy pent¬ 
house of brows. 

“Oh, I’ll go over at once. Thanks for telling 



VIOLA HUDSON 


304 

He turned to give some instructions in rapid 
Tamil to the “kangany” who was in charge of that 
particular gang of coolies. 

Bennet had felt himself dismissed. Hudson 
hadn’t asked a single question, nor had he had the 
courtesy to invite him to go and rest at Kellioya 
after his long hurried walk. He went moodily 
back to Mr. Keane’s bungalow, arriving there more 
than an hour later. By this time the sun was getting 
very powerful, and Garth was exhausted by his quick 
walk and the emotions of the morning. But he was 
satisfied nevertheless that the very circumstances of 
their mutual association with this death-bed scene— 
such a poignant little scene—had established a kind 
of inevitable intimacy between himself and Mrs. 
Mansfield. They could no longer feel like strangers 
to each other. And then she had been so wonderful 
with those simple little Catholic prayers of hers. 
They had seemed to calm and comfort the dying 
boy. He found himself repeating the words: Most 
Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee. . . 
Garth had not prayed since the death of his wife, 
but now he felt that no day should pass for him 
without a repetition of that beautiful little ejacula¬ 
tory prayer. It did hold comfort and consolation, 
and a faith that could calmly envisage all sorrows 
and griefs. He began to understand why Mrs. 
Mansfield, who must have suffered so much, had 
been able to retain that calm serene expression, 
that limpid outlook. 

On his way back he encountered Keane, told him 
the news, and watched him as he hurried off in the 
direction of the river, evidently bent on reaching the 
little bungalow as soon as possible. Garth did not 
offer to accompany him. He hoped Viola would 
go home soon and rest; she must be quite worn out 
after the fatigue and emotion of the last twelve 
hours. To-morrow he would go over to Kellioya 


VIOLA HUDSON 


305 

and call upon her. No matter how rude and dis¬ 
agreeable Hudson might be, he intended to see Mrs. 
Mansfield again. 

Although he was twenty-eight years old he had 
only once been in love and that was with the woman 
he had married after a few weeks’ acquaintance. 
Their union had been very happy, and he was still 
genuinely mourning her death when he came to 
Madura. During her lifetime they had lived al¬ 
ways at Stonewood, his place in Gloucestershire, 
where, like so many Englishmen, Garth had enjoyed 
the life of games and sport which his country home 
had offered. He hunted and shot and fished, played 
golf and cricket and lawn-tennis; he took an active 
part in local affairs. Nor was he without intel¬ 
lectual interests, and had made many additions to 
the already valuable library at Stonewood. Tie 
had succeeded his father when only fourteen, and 
during his long minority sufficient money had been 
saved to make him a rich man. 

Until he had seen Mrs. Mansfield—was it really 
only yesterday afternoon?—he had never even re¬ 
motely contemplated marrying again. But now he 
was beginning consciously to feel a passionate in¬ 
terest in this woman. And she was not free. She 
could not set herself free. She belonged to a man 
from whom she was separated. It could be through 
no fault of her own, since she had the custody of 
her child. This man must have been faithless to 
her. If he ever met him! . . . 

Garth went into his room and flung himself upon 
a couch. He closed his eyes, and his imagination 
reconstructed the scene of the morning. He could 
see Viola standing there, he watched the move¬ 
ments of her beautiful maternal hands; he listened 
again to those simple effectual prayers that had 
fallen so easily from her lips as if from long cus¬ 
tom and familiarity. No effort, no cant, but this 


VIOLA HUDSON 


30 6 

wonderful attempt to reconcile the erring creature 
with an Omnipotent Creator. He could remember 
saying Amen, just as if it had been the most natural 
thing in the world. He had had a curious inexpli¬ 
cable impulse to associate himself with those prayers 
of hers. . . . 

He was very ignorant about the Catholic religion; 
he quite saw that a proud independent nation had 
had to free itself from the “power of the Pope,” 
and he had always believed that the Catholic Faith 
consisted largely in a blind adherence to medieval 
superstitions which no sane person could possibly 
accept. That it could be a living thing, of vital 
assistance in life and in death, he had never en¬ 
visaged. He resolved to learn more about it at 
the first opportunity, approaching it simply as a 
branch of knowledge of which he was professedly 
ignorant, and to which the personality of Viola 
Mansfield had attracted him. 

“You’d better send your sister home at once, 
Hudson,” said Keane, as Matthew approached the 
little bungalow. “She’s simply worn out, and I 
can’t get her to stir.” 

“Oh, I’ll soon see to that,” said Hudson. 

He went, treading very softly, into Brett’s dark¬ 
ened room. He saw the stark form lying beneath 
the sheet upon the bed, and near it Viola was kneel¬ 
ing apparently absorbed in prayer. She glanced 
up as Matthew came in, and rose to her feet. He 
could see that her face though very pale was quite 
calm. 

“It’s no use your staying here now,” he whispered, 
“go home at once. Tell them I shall be late this 
morning.” 

“I’d rather stay here, please, Matthew.” 

“Nonsense! You can’t do anything. Besides, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


307 

you’re in the way. Go home at once.” His voice 
was rough and dictatorial. 

Viola went out of the room. She dreaded the 
long walk back to Kellioya in the hot sun. She had 
sent Rebecca home as soon as possible so as not 
to leave Hilary alone with the native servants any 
longer. And she wished to remain and watch by 
the dead boy until they came to take him away. 
But if she had told Matthew she wanted to stay 
and pray for the repose of the soul of poor young 
Hartley Brett, he would certainly not have under¬ 
stood her, and perhaps he would have said some¬ 
thing scornful and contemptuous. 

She went back to Kellioya, plodding slowly up the 
hill in the broiling sun. When she reached the 
bungalow she told the servants that her brother 
would be late and breakfast must be put off for an 
hour beyond its usual time. Having done this she 
went to her room and throwing herself upon the 
bed fell into a deep slumber. She was awakened 
by Rebecca, who came to tell her that breakfast 
was ready. 

“Oh, Rebecca, say I can’t come—I’m too tired 
and I don’t want anything to eat.” 

Matthew was annoyed at his sister’s non- 
appearance, but he made no comment, and after 
swallowing a hasty breakfast he began to make the 
necessary arrangements for the funeral, which 
would take place at Nuwara Eliya on the following 
day. The body would be transported as far as the 
road at an early hour, and thence driven to Nuwara 
Eliya, accompanied by Mr. Keane. In the East 
only a few hours ordinarily elapse between death 
and burial. 

He would have to go to Nuwara Eliya himself 
this afternoon and arrange everything for the 
funeral on the morrow. It was a bore—he hadn’t 
wished to leave Kellioya iust now. Viola would be 


VIOLA HUDSON 


308 

alone with only Rebecca and the native servants. 
Perhaps he had better tell the Eurasian conductor 
to sleep in the house. He didn’t like to leave them 
quite unprotected. 

Keane was coming over this afternoon to see him 
before he started, and to consult him about the de¬ 
tails. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t give him a hint 
that he really couldn’t have young Bennet hanging 
about his sister. He had ascertained that Bennet 
had paid an unnecessarily early visit to poor Brett’s 
bungalow that morning. Anxiety for the sick boy— 
who could only have been the merest acquaintance— 
might possibly have actuated him, but he had 
scarcely taken his eyes from Viola’s face last night, 
and it was much more probable that, hearing she 
was to be alone, he had gone thither to secure this 
unusual opportunity of an interview with her. 
Matthew sincerely wished that Bennet hadn’t 
bought Madura. There was a point by the river 
where the three estates touched, his own, Keane’s 
and Bennet’s. 

“He’ll just have to learn that I don’t keep open 
house,” said Matthew. 

He w r ent down to the carpenter’s shop, which 
was not far from the factory. A sound of hammer¬ 
ing came from within, and he looked in to satisfy 
himself that the rough coffin was being fashioned. 
Then he passed on to the factory, inhaling the 
aroma from the old-fashioned chula-house, where 
the tea-leaves were being roasted upon great trays 
moved swiftly backward and forward over glowing 
fires by scantily clad coolies. The warm fragrance 
of those freshly roasted leaves was delicious to 
Matthew; he could tell the quality of the tea from 
the odor, and he knew that this batch was of the 
first order. It signified more rupees to add to his 
hoard. Why, he hardly spent any of his own money 


VIOLA HUDSON 


309 

on food now! Viola’s contribution paid for nearly 

all. 

He had been told that Bennet was going to set up 
a lot of new-fangled machinery, with a special con¬ 
trivance for roasting the leaves which would save 
time and labor. He didn’t believe there was any 
use in that. Bennet must have yielded to the spe¬ 
cious pretenses of some of those great engineering 
firms in Colombo. The tea had always been 
roasted by hand at Kellioya, and where could you 
get better tea or any that had a higher reputation 
in the English market? Bennet would probably 
ruin his coolies with too much indulgent attention 
... he would spoil the labor market ... he was 
a young rich fool without knowledge or experience, 
and was bound to squander his substance. The 
worst of it was that in setting a higher standard 
of comfort for his men, an example which others 
were bound to follow, he would also injure his fel¬ 
low-planters. 

Matthew strolled back to the house. He was un¬ 
easy and restless, for although he had concealed the 
fact, the death of young Brett had made a very deep 
and unpleasant impression upon him. He had kept 
the boy in Ceylon against his conscience for the 
sake of the really handsome premium his mother 
was paying. People knew about that premium, for 
Brett hadn’t attempted to keep silence about it, and 
Matthew was aware he had been criticized ad¬ 
versely for accepting such a big one. Keane had 
known only too well that the boy had been getting 
into bad ways, and had spoken very seriously to 
Hudson on the subject some months ago. Matthew 
disliked to think he would be criticized and even 
blamed for the affair, and perhaps even held respon¬ 
sible by some for the boy’s death. He liked to 
stand well with his fellow-planters; he didn’t mind 
being called a rough diamond or a skin-flint, or a 


VIOLA HUDSON 


310 

surly inhospitable man, but he did object to having 
his honor even indirectly impugned. People were 
bound to talk—that was the worst of an island with 
a small European community where everyone was 
known at least by name to everyone else. It was a 
hot-bed of gossip, and he would have to run the 
gauntlet of endless questioning from every single 
soul he was destined to meet in Nuwara Eliya on 
the morrow. 

Keane arrived at the bungalow almost directly 
after Matthew had ensconced himself on a long 
chair in the veranda, his feet stretched out upon the 
two arms that protruded beyond the chair itself. 
Viola had not re-appeared since the morning, but 
no doubt she was wise to take a rest. 

“I’m starting at half past four,” said Matthew. 

“Yes?” said Keane. “I shall get off at dawn to¬ 
morrow myself, and we ought to be at the road by 
nine if you could get the carriages there by then.” 

“Oh, I’ll see to that.” 

The two men discussed the necessary details, and 
then Keane said: 

“I hope it’s not awfully inconvenient for you to 
go to Nuwara Eliya? But one of us must be here 
to see to everything this end.” 

“Oh, no—I should have had to go soon in any 
case on business. It’s months since I was there. 
Having my sister with me makes it difficult for me 
to get away.” 

“How is Mrs. Mansfield? None the worse, I 
hope?” < ’ ♦ 

“Thanks—she’s all right. A little tired—she’s 
lying down.” 

Keane paused a moment and then he said: 

“Bennet tells me she was simply wonderful . . . 
she made that poor boy pray before he died.” 

Matthew was silent. A little inward scorching 
anger took possession of him. 


VIOLA HUDSON 311 

“It seemed to comfort him wonderfully, Garth 
said,” added Keane. 

“You must give Bennet a hint that I don’t care 
to have visitors here at Kellioya,” said Matthew. 
“My sister and I like to lead a very quiet life. She 
has her child and I’ve got my work. We don’t 
want interruptions from outside.” 

“My dear Hudson, that’s nothing new. But I 
don’t think it’s necessary for me to say anything. 
If he’s heard anything of you he must have heard 
that.” Keane’s voice was quite kind, but Matthew 
felt the veiled reproof. 

“Is Bennet coming with you to-morrow?” he in¬ 
quired. 

“Oh, no. You see, he hardly knew Brett, and 
he’s busy getting things straight at Madura.” 

“I hope to goodness he won’t come hanging round 
here while I’m away,” said Matthew. 

“I don’t think there’s any fear of that,” said 
Keane, coolly.. “And if he did there’d be no harm. 
He’s a very nice young chap, and if he likes to talk 
to your sister, who can blame him?” 

“I don’t choose to have him,” said Matthew, 
“and I’m master here.” His face was as hard as a 
stone statue, and had the same rough-hewn look. 
Keane saw that it was useless to argue with him. 
He would give Bennet the required hint, but Bennet 
too was obstinate, and it would take more than a 
hint to stop him from seeing Mrs. Mansfield should 
he feel an inclination to do so. 

He and Matthew must fight it out between them. 

He rose to go, and Matthew accompanied him 
across the lawn. On their way they met Rebecca 
leading little Hilary by the hand. The child could 
toddle. In her white frock and with her sunny curls 
and smiling rosy baby face she looked what the 
nurses call a “little picture.” Keane stopped to kiss 
her; he was fond of children. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


312 

“Pretty little girl—that niece of yours,” he said, 
as they walked on. 

“Oh, she’d be decent enough if her mother didn’t 
spoil her,” said Hudson, morosely. 

“Oh, well, a baby of that age,” said Keane. 

They parted at the top of the hill, Matthew re¬ 
turning moodily to the bungalow. 

CHAPTER VIII 

T 7 IOLA rose after Matthew had started on his 
* ride through the jungle. Rebecca carried a 
long chair for her into the shade of the eucalyptus 
trees, and she lay there, playing languidly with 
Hilary. She did not quite know why, but something 
made her recall that foggy day in London when she 
had lain and looked at her cloudy image in the black¬ 
ened window-pane and said: “If I ever have a 
daughter . . But perhaps it was this capri¬ 
ciously evoked memory that made her clasp the child 
very close to her and put her cheek against the soft 
plump baby one. Hilary gave little strangled 
gurgles of joy and contentment, and it was thus that 
Garth Bennet, coming suddenly through a gap in 
the trees, discovered them. He stopped for an ap¬ 
preciable moment, watching them. They made a 
charming picture—the white-clad mother and child. 
Viola looked such a very young mother. Her dark 
head was pressed against Hilary’s tumbled golden 
curls. 

“My precious, precious darling!” He heard her 
utter those words, enraptured. Then kisses—kisses 
and low laughter. He felt an odd sensation, as if 
something were clawing at his heart. Perhaps he 
was thinking of a somewhat similar scene at Stone- 
wood only a few summers ago . . . Memory smites 
blindly, careless of the wounds she inflicts. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3*3 

He knew then that he could have loved this wo¬ 
man, playing with her baby in this beautiful island 
fastness. She could have healed his wounds and 
perhaps slain the memories that were too poignant 
to be borne. But she was a Catholic. She could 
not divorce her husband and marry again. Even 
if she obtained a civil divorce it did not release her 
from her marriage vow or permit her to marry 
again during his lifetime. She was a good Catholic, 
too. He had felt certain of that when he stood and 
listened to her as she prayed beside the dying boy. 
No prayers had ever affected him like that before. 
All day those words had rung in his head: Most 
Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee. 

He could hear poor Hartley Brett’s voice 
stumbling into silence over those words. . . . 

He came across the lawn and approached Viola. 

“May I come, Mrs. Mansfield, or shall you think 
me a fearful bore? But I knew I should find you 
alone.” 

The hint had been faithfully given by Keane, 
but, as he had foreseen, it had not been taken. Ben- 
net was determined to pursue his acquaintance with 
the beautiful Mrs. Mansfield. 

“Oh, do come,” said Viola, rising. 

He sat down on a chair near her. “What a dar¬ 
ling baby!” 

“Yes, isn’t she?” 

“I never saw such green eyes,” he said, tilting up 
the little flower face with his hand. The child 
looked at him with steady scrutiny as if summing 
him up. The result was evidently satisfactory for 
she put a chubby grubby hand into his and said: 

“Like ’00.” 

And Garth Bennet colored like a boy. “Thank 
you,” he said, laughing. The child’s favor seemed 
to him a good omen. 

“I wish they were blue,” said Viola, “she ought 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 H 

to have blue eyes with that flaxen hair. I like blue 
eyes best. But we can’t change them, can we, 
darling?” 

Hilary repeated parrot-like: “Can’t change 
them.” 

“Oh, well, they’re very individual,” said Garth, 
pleasantly. “And with those black lashes—the only 
dark thing about her—they’re very effective too. I 
was only wondering where I’d seen eyes like that 
before.” 

Viola gave a quick little shudder which was fortu¬ 
nately unperceived by Garth. The eyes were, alas, 
so readily recognizable by anyone who knew Lady 
Bethnell and Esme. But surely those ghosts could 
not arise to disturb her now? She was so safe from 
discovery here. 

Bennet’s eyes traveled from the child’s face to 
the mother’s. 

“When is Mr. Hudson coming back?” he asked, 
leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. 

“To-morrow night. He’s got business in Nuwara 
Eliya after the funeral.” 

“I’m told he doesn’t care for visitors,” he re¬ 
marked. 

“That’s quite true.” 

“It was one of the reasons why I came to-day. 
I knew he wouldn’t be here. And I wanted to know 
how you were, after the tragic scene this morning.” 

“It made me very sad because of Hartley’s 
mother,” said Viola. “And, then, I had only once 
seen death before. That was when I was a little 
girl and my aunt died. But she was old, and it 
didn’t seem so sad as to see a very young man like 
poor Hartley Brett dying too so far from his 
mother.” 

“Didn’t you care about your aunt?” 

“Not—not very much,” she admitted, reluctantly, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 i 5 

wondering why it seemed almost natural to speak of 
these things to a young man whom she had seen only 
twice before. “But she was good to me in her way. 
She adopted me when my mother died. And it was 
she who made me a Catholic. I’m very grateful to 
her for that. It’s always helped me to forgive 
her!” 

“To forgive her!” echoed Bennet. “Why, wasn’t 
she kind?” 

Viola made an enchanting little grimace. “She 
did her duty by me.” 

But he noticed that she cuddled Hilary more 
closely to her. 

“I wonder you liked being made a Catholic,” he 
said, after a moment’s pause, “I wonder you’re 
grateful to her for that. It seems to me such a 
hampering thing.” It was a bold little speech, and 
it astonished Viola, although she had no idea of 
what was really passing in his mind. 

“I am glad and grateful, all the same,” she said, 
simply; “and though it may be hampering in one 
sense, it gives—oh, so much more than it takes.” 
Her eyes shone a little. So it was no use following 
up that track. She rejoiced in her fetters. . . . 

The sun was slanting in golden rays on the grove 
of eucalyptus trees. Their lower leaves were almost 
blue against the pale mottled bark, but the slender 
pointed foliage on the higher branches was lus¬ 
trously green, lifted against a sky of warm sapphire. 
It was a perfect evening, very still and peaceful. 

“Don’t you find it dull here, Mrs. Mansfield?” 

“Not exactly. You see, I’ve got Hilary. But it 
isn’t exciting.” 

“Have you been here long?” 

“Rather more than a year.” 

“A year!” he repeated. “But you go away some¬ 
times, I suppose? To Kandy—to Colombo?” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


316 

“I’ve never been away since I came,” she an¬ 
swered, tranquilly. 

“Why, I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I’ve 
felt dull and homesick sometimes,” Garth admitted. 

“But you needn’t stay—you’re free,” she said, 
softly. 

“But I don’t want in the least to throw up 
Madura. Now I’ve bought it I want to make a big 
success of it. I’ve the very newest things in machin¬ 
ery coming out from England with a special man to 
put them up. I shall have an electric plant with all 
that water so handy, and there’ll be electric light in 
the bungalow and cooking things too. I shall use 
the Kelli-Oya as she’s never been used before.” His 
brown eyes danced. 

Yes, he was young, keen, ambitious. When Viola 
contrasted him with Matthew, she sighed. Mat¬ 
thew was so satisfied with the old ways, that he 
regarded any innovations as mere waste of money. 

“I daresay an old hand like your brother would 
think I’m just flinging money about,” he said. 

She was silent. She was scrupulously loyal to 
Matthew. 

“Anyhow, Keane gives me lots of encouragement. 
He says he shall follow suit if my things turn out a 
success. But, then, he’s got to think of those two 
boys of his—” 

“Oh, if they’re a success everyone will want to 
copy you,” she said, brightly. 

“Your brother must be feeling awfully cut up 
about poor young Brett. His own creeper too. Of 
course it was nobody’s fault, but I think one would 
feel responsible.” 

“I’m sure Matthew doesn’t feel responsible. 
Poor Mr. Brett got drenched, he must have gone 
about with pneumonia on him for several days—the 
heart failed.” Her voice trembled a little. She felt 
that the boy had had but a weak hold on life. Still, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 i 7 

something might have been done for him if it had 
only been taken in time. “Now he’s dead I wish I 
could have done more for him. But it was difficult 
for me, as Matthew doesn’t like me to ask people 
here.” 

It was an opportunity and Garth Bennet made 
use of it. 

“Does that mean that I’m never to see you 
either?” he asked. 

His words astonished her, although she had not 
been unconscious of the homage in his eyes. They 
had met for the first time yesterday, they could 
hardly be said to know each other at all. But events 
had forced them into a premature intimacy. They 
had watched together beside a death-bed. She 
could not regard him with indifference, nor yet quite 
as a stranger. What did he know of her story? 
Probably Mr. Keane had told him that she was 
separated from her husband. Matthew insisted 
upon that explanation and it certainly led to less 
questioning. People hesitated before asking for 
further details. 

“It means . . . that we shan’t often meet,” she 
said. 

“But I shall want to see you very often,” said 
Garth, boldly. 

Viola colored faintly. “I’m afraid it’s no use 
your thinking of it.” 

“Hudson simply can’t keep you shut up like a 
prisoner! Why, you are a mere girl—you can’t 
possibly be satisfied with Kellioya!” 

There was indigination in his tone. 

“I’m twenty, and I feel very old.” 

“Don’t listen to him! Lead your own life!” 

She smiled. “It’s easy for a man to talk like 
that. But as long as I live with Matthew, I must do 
as he wishes. And you mustn’t think I find it so 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 i 8 

very hard. I’ve always—all my life—had to do 
what someone else wanted. There was my aunt 
first. If I didn’t obey her, I was punished . . . 
And then there was my brother George, with his 
v T ife. Then another brother Percival and his wife 
—I had to teach their children.” 

“And then?” he said, interested at the simple re¬ 
cital. 

“Then for a little while I pleased myself—and 
I suffered for it.” 

He knew she must be speaking of her marriage. 
Something like a pang of pain passed through him. 
She was fettered on all sides. . . . 

“Really suffered, I mean,” she went on, in a cool 
level emotionless voice. “I know what it’s like. 
So I should be a fool to complain of Matthew’s pin¬ 
pricks.” 

“But don’t you ever walk out alone?” He felt 
a desperate desire to arrange perhaps some place 
of meeting. He couldn’t go away, utterly uncertain 
as to when he should see her again. “We might 
meet sometimes down by the river. That turn just 
beyond poor Brett’s bungalow. It is on Madura— 
Hudson couldn’t warn me off if he wanted to.” 

“But he might warn me off,” she said, quietly. 

“Oh, do let’s arrange it now,” he pleaded. 

“No,” said Viola. 

“You’d think it wrong to do what he disap¬ 
proved?” 

“No—it isn’t that.” 

“I’d like to be friends, Mrs. Mansfield,” he said, 
suddenly, with an almost boyish simplicity. “We’re 
both lonely here, and we could be friends.” 

Yes, that at least was true. But she only said: 
“Oh, you’ll soon have lots of friends. And when 
you are bored you can go to Nuwara Eliya.” 

Her cool voice snubbed him into silence. He was 



VIOLA HUDSON 319 

making no progress. And he had so hoped to be 
able to ensure future meetings. 

She was so beautiful. . . . The thought struck 
him that if she hadn’t been married he would have 
asked her there and then to marry him as soon as 
possible. Of course it would be a mad bold thing 
to do, but sometimes the most cautious of men had 
done mad bold things and had never regretted them. 

She rose and put Hilary on the ground. “It’s 
Hilary’s bed-time,” she said. 

Garth sprang to his feet. There was no doubt he 
was dismissed. 

“Oh, have I offended you, Mrs. Mansfield?” 

“Not in the least!” Her smile was kind, even 
friendly; it reassured him. 

“Then may I come and see you in the morning?” 
he asked. 

“I am always in the house or garden.” 

“Keane will be away all day. It’ll keep me from 
thinking of poor young Brett.” 

She moved toward the house. He watched her 
as she went, her white dress trailing over the grass. 
Hilary, plump and still unsteady, waddled beside 
her. But there was to-morrow. That at least was 
a temporary reprieve from his sentence of banish¬ 
ment. She hadn’t said that he might not come. 
There was comfort in the thought. He watched 
her as she disappeared into the house. 

The night was clear and starry, with wonderful 
moonlight. The Milky Way looked indeed like the 
River of Heaven, as the Japanese poetically call it. 
A broad pale river flowing across the sky, with stars 
shining upon both its banks. It divided the dark vel¬ 
vet blue of the night firmament. Low in the south 
the Southern Cross flamed like a gigantic luminous 
jewel. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


320 

Viola had been in bed for some little time when 
she was aware of stealthy footsteps treading the 
little path that ran not far from that side of the 
bungalow. It was a path that went behind the grove 
of eucalyptus trees after leaving the bungalow at 
right angles. And it went down the hill westward 
to where a bridge spanned the Kelli-Oya, and you 
found yourself in Madura. 

Viola went to the window very softly for fear 
of waking Hilary, and unfastening the wooden shut¬ 
ters she looked out. A man was walking on the 
path, that shone in the moonlight as if it had been 
strewn with crystals and silver. He paced to and 
fro with measured steps. It was past midnight, and 
her heart beat with a little fear. That was the 
worst of being a mother—one was so often a little 
afraid. She was never afraid for herself. But 
Hilary . . . She whispered a brief prayer. 

Now he had turned and in the moonlight she 
recognized him by reason of his unusual height, 
and a certain graceful way he had of walking. It 
was Garth Bennet. He was marching up and down 
like a sentinel, just as if this had been a royal palace 
that must not be left unguarded day or night. Per¬ 
haps some such thought as this had prompted him 
to come and guard this remote bungalow in the Cey¬ 
lon hills. Ide hadn’t liked her to be there alone, un¬ 
protected, with Matthew away. 

She closed the shutters softly and went back to 
bed. She fell asleep at last to the measured cease¬ 
less rhythm of those footsteps falling crisply on 
the path. 

She knew then that he loved her. This evening 
he had tried to tell her so, and she had checked him. 

But he must not love her. Love was over for her. 
There remained, yes, thank God, there remained 
Hilary. . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


321 


CHAPTER IX 

I T WAS nearly eleven o’clock on the following 
morning when Garth Bennet appeared. He had 
risen early and had accompanied Mr. Keane 
for a couple of miles or so through the jungle, while 
a little ahead of them the coolies proceeded, carry¬ 
ing their tragic burden. 

He had been sobered by that walk. It had been 
wonderful too, in that crystal-clear air of dawn, go¬ 
ing along the narrow path, following Keane, who 
was mounted on his steady gray cob. The silent 
dense jungle lay all around them, with its thick cling¬ 
ing undergrowth, so often armed with thorns that 
were like miniature spears and could inflict almost 
as deep a wound. From the trees blossoming 
orchids looked down upon them with half human 
faces. The tree ferns growing to an immense height 
made patches of delicate feathery emerald verdure. 
Jungle fowls flew past with flaming plumage and 
hoarse cry of fear. The narrow path was cut on 
the side of a hill with overhanging rocks on one side 
and a sheer precipice descending for hundreds of 
feet on the other, all densely overgrown with jungle. 

At a certain point Garth had left Keane to con¬ 
tinue his journey alone. He returned to Madura 
and later went to see Viola. 

He wondered if she would receive him. Perhaps 
she would send the servant back with some excuse. 
He must have shown her last evening during their 
conversation on the lawn, that he had begun to take 
an especial interest in her. But fortified by her 
brother’s intense dislike to visitors she could very 
easily refuse to see him. 

As he approached the bungalow, he saw her sit¬ 
ting in the veranda quite alone. Not even Hilary 
was there to distract her attention. The thought 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 22 

pleased him. For once they could have a long 
private talk and perhaps he would learn something 
more of her, and even discover if the obstacles that 
prevented her from marrying again were as insuper¬ 
able as Keane believed them to be. 

Viola rose and stood on the steps of the bungalow 
to greet him. She looked both rested and refreshed. 

“May I come in, Mrs. Mansfield?” 

He knew that he must be many years older than 
Viola, yet she could make him feel like an awkward, 
embarrassed school-boy. 

“Of course you may 1 ” 

He took her hand in greeting. “How are you? 
Rested, I hope?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

She sat down on a wicker chair piled with 
cushions. Garth sat opposite to her. 

“Do smoke,” she said. 

He lit a cigarette. 

“I hope you’ll stay and have breakfast with me. 
You know, we never call it tilhn up-country.” 

“Yes, I’ve wondered why. But whether it’s 
breakfast or tiffin I shall love to stay.” 

Unlike Matthew, Viola was naturally hospitable. 
She would have been delighted to see their neighbors 
dropping in as a matter of course to meals, just as 
they did in other districts. Once she had said 
something of the kind to her brother, but he had 
only replied grimly: “You’d have a nice beef-book 
if you went in for that kind of promiscuous hospi¬ 
tality.” 

Viola, however, was never permitted to see the 
“beef-book.” Matthew preferred to deal with it 
himself, and loud and violent were the recrimina¬ 
tions if the unfortunate cook dared to overpass a 
certain fixed limit based upon the maximum of 
economy. The said book was the one in which the 
cook’s accounts and expenditure were all entered. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


323 

In a land where there is little mutton—and that 
generally goat—beef forms the staple item of meat. 
There were two “beef-days,” as they were called, 
in the week, when the butcher offered his wares for 
sale. Chickens were cheap and plentiful, if the 
supply of meat was insufficient to last until the fol¬ 
lowing “beef-day,” and there were always vege¬ 
tables and fruit in abundance. Matthew kept an 
eye on current prices and left little margin for the 
most wily and accomplished cook to provide himself 
with any commission. 

Viola had hoped that Bennet would come; she 
was feeling lonely, and the prospect of his company 
was an agreeable one. She had ordered a slightly 
more elaborate meal than usual. Roast beef and 
vegetables, chicken and salad, curry and rice, cheese, 
fruit, and coffee, followed each other in due suc¬ 
cession. Garth was hungry, for he had walked a 
long distance that morning and had only partaken 
of a very slight meal of tea and toast. As he sat 
at the side of the table near Viola he thought defi¬ 
nitely : 

“That’s the woman I intend to marry.” 

If he had ever contemplated a second marriage 
he had certainly never remotely imagined that he 
would meet the woman in this wild sparsely-inhab¬ 
ited district of Ceylon. So few people came thither 
from the outside world. It wasn’t mentioned in the 
guide-books. It wasn’t near or on the way to any 
of the places that globe-trotters wished to see. It 
wasn’t a district where there was lots going on, like 
Dimbula or Dickoya, which were strewn with fine 
bungalows inhabited by wealthy hospitable planters. 
He had visited some of them during his last stay in 
Ceylon, and had thought that their abodes in exile 
had rather resembled English country houses, artis¬ 
tically and even luxuriously furnished, containing 
treasures too in the shape of old glass and silver and 


VIOLA HUDSON 


32 4 

family portraits, as if the men who possessed them 
had come to Ceylon with the intention of making 
their new home as much as possible like the one 
they had left. And it was something after this 
fashion that Garth intended to deal with his own 
bungalow. It was to be a perfect home, with books 
and pictures, glass, china, and silver, of delicate and 
rare quality. 

After breakfast they returned to the veranda, 
which was always the coolest part of the house. It 
was a glorious summer day, and the recent rains 
had made all the foliage brilliantly fresh and green. 
The sky was a sheet of sapphire unbroken by a 
single cloud. 

It was very pleasant talking to Viola, although 
he was unable to re-capture anything of that inti¬ 
macy which had seemed to spring up between them 
yesterday. Viola talked chiefly of poor Brett, and 
of the little local affairs which she thought would in¬ 
terest Garth. Last night his words and manner had 
alarmed her. She gave him no opportunity now of 
saying anything in the least personal. 

But he liked watching her. She was wonderfully 
beautiful, soft and girlish and yet so mature, so full 
of an assurance that made her sometimes seem older 
than himself. 

He stayed on much later than he intended, and 
suddenly, as they were talking, a shadow fell upon 
the path just below the steps. Viola sprang up 
quickly, and exclaimed, “Oh, is that you, Matthew? 
You must have had a hot ride home!” 

Garth rose too. 

Something in Matthew’s grim impassive face 
made Viola feel almost guilty. She knew that he 
would hate to find Sir Garth there, and perhaps he 
would put an odious interpretation upon his pres¬ 
ence. 

Matthew’s manner as he greeted Garth was not 


VIOLA HUDSON 


325 

propitiatory, and the young man was instantly made 
to feel that he was both unwanted and unwelcome. 
The knowledge aroused his secret indignation. 
After all, why should he not come? He was accus¬ 
tomed to being liked and welcomed wherever he 
went; he had never had an enemy in his life. 

Matthew came up the steps. 

“Is this an off day with you, Sir Garth?” he in¬ 
quired, curtly. 

“I suppose it is,” answered Bennet, coldly. “We 
haven’t started regular work on Madura yet, you 
know.” 

He felt that Hudson wished to insult him. The 
thought enraged him. But because of Mrs. Mans¬ 
field’s presence he kept an iron hold over himself. 

“I am sure you can make Madura a very profit¬ 
able concern if you choose,” continued Hudson, eying 
him ferociously from beneath the jutting shaggy 
brows. “But if you spend your days in idleness in 
other men’s bungalows, as ninety-nine per cent of 
the young fellows who come out here do, you’ll lose 
heavily on your investment. Take my advice and 
stick to Madura for the next few years.” 

Garth’s face was pale with suppressed anger. 
He drew himself up and answered coolly: “I intend 
to. 

He knew that he was dismissed, that he could 
never come here again unless he first ascertained 
that Hudson was av/ay. And even then he might 
find it impossible to come, for Viola w T as inclined 
to yield almost supinely to her brother’s mandates. 
Garth felt he had said so little to-day, and there 
w r as so much he still wanted to tell her. . . . 

Between them, however, stood this gigantic, mas¬ 
sive figure, coarse, brutal, domineering. At that 
moment Garth almost hated him. He knew that it 
was in Hudson’s power to prevent him from seeing 
Viola. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


326 

“Good-by, Mrs. Mansfield. It was awfully 
good of you to let me stop. When I’ve found a 
decent cook and have got things a bit ship-shape at 
Madura, you must both come over and breakfast 
with me. Good-by, Mr. Hudson.” 

He took up his pith helmet, and strode quickly 
away. His lithe tall figure was soon lost to sight 
behind the grove of eucalyptus trees. 

When he had disappeared, Matthew turned to 
his sister. 

“He had breakfast here?” he demanded. 

“Yes, Matthew.” 

“You invited him to come?” His voice was loud 
and fierce. 

“He asked if he might. And then I invited him 
to stay.” 

The blood surged to his brow. “You invited him 
to stay, at my expense?” 

“If there’s any extra expense I will meet it. But 
please don’t make a fuss, Matthew. You know 
I like having people.” 

“You’re not to have them, then. Do you hear?” 
He advanced toward her threateningly, and for the 
moment she thought he actually meant to strike her. 
“Do you understand? It isn’t as if you were to be 
trusted! I’m here to see that you’re not up to your 
old tricks!” 

The insult was almost worse than the blow she 
had feared. Her face flamed. “How dare you 
say that to me ?” 

“Well, it’s true isn’t it? What about Hilary? 
The least you can do is to keep quiet! You’re mak¬ 
ing that young fool fall in love with you ! The very 
first eligible man who comes to the district. And 
the moment my back’s turned you have him here. If 
I ever catch him here again I shall speak plainly to 
him, and perhaps give him something he won’t like. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


327 

What you’ve got to do is to keep yourself to your¬ 
self and look after that brat of yours!” 

Viola was silent. Matthew’s words beat upon 
her like a succession of scourges that bruised both 
body and soul. She knew now that he blamed her, 
that he had always blamed her for the catastrophe 
of her life. Perhaps he didn’t believe the story of 
the secret marriage, and of her being tricked and 
duped. How indeed could she make him believe 
that the whole affair had been planned and exe¬ 
cuted with all the deadly dexterity of a man whose 
life had been spent in deceiving an old irascible 
father ? 

“Do you hear me, Viola? Do you intend to obey 
me?” His voice had again assumed a menacing 
sound. 

“I’m in your power, I know,” she said, coldly, “so 
I suppose I shall have to obey you, but if you make 
things too hard for me I shall go away. At least, 
I have that remedy.” 

“I shall not let you go away,” said Matthew. 
“You shall stay here exactly as long as I choose. 
And I forbid you to have Bennet near the place. 
You shall not see him. I forbid it!” 

He was mortally afraid that Viola, for lack of 
any other confidant, would some day tell her story 
to this young man. And he didn’t intend to have 
that shameful episode known throughout the length 
and breadth of the island. To be discussed in the 
Colombo and Kandy clubs! No, he had always 
held his head high, and he wasn’t going to be asso¬ 
ciated with anything so dishonorable. 

He went into the bungalow, leaving Viola alone. 
The stormy interview had exhausted her. She was 
afraid of Matthew, of his immense physical 
strength, his bullying ways. She was certain that it 
had been in his mind to strike her. A blow from 
him would certainly fell her to the ground. But if 


VIOLA HUDSON 


328 

it came to that, she would escape from Kellioya— 
she and Rebecca and little Hilary. They could hide 
in those dense dark w T oods . . . they could get away 
somehow. Garth Bennet would help her. She knew 
that she had found a friend in him. She could 
surely count upon his help. She thought of him 
pacing the path outside the bungalow through the 
long hours of the preceding night, a vigilant sentinel. 
She saw again the tall darkly-silhouetted figure 
moving up and down, his feet falling crisply on 
the quartz, that shone like crystals in the moon¬ 
light. . . . 

One friend in that path shall be 
To secure my steps from wrong; 

One to count night day for me, 

Patient through the watches long 
Serving most with none to see. . . . 

She pictured him then, tender, chivalrous, for¬ 
bearing, to the woman he loved. Not to her, of 
course, never to her, but to some bright happy un¬ 
shadowed girl. He was young, he would certainly 
seek another happiness to replace at any rate in 
part the one he had so cruelly lost. 

She wished Matthew hadn’t made it so impossible 
for him to come back to Kellioya, and renew that 
friendly intercourse which had just begun to be so 
pleasant, cheering her after the long months of soli¬ 
tude. 

Her solitude was indeed more intense and pro¬ 
nounced in the weeks that followed. Matthew did 
not try to obtain another pupil, and he was too 
stingy to engage a paid European assistant, which, 
considering the size of the estate, was almost a 
necessity. He did all the work himself, and was 
out early and late, only returning to the bungalow 
for his meals, when he was always tired and cross 
and apt to take offense at trifles. But he was a 


VIOLA HUDSON 


329 


strong man and inured to the climate, and the extra 
work did not impair his powerful constitution and 
physique. He grew, however, more and more 
morose and misanthropic and scarcely even saw Mr. 
Keane. 

Bennet had apparently accepted his dismissal, for 
he never approached the bungalow. Viola was thus 
cut off from all communication with the outside 
world except for an occasional letter from the Per- 
cival Hudsons. 


CHAPTER X 

T HE South West monsoon set in early and with 
considerable violence during the following 
May. Part of the road through the jungle had 
been washed away, and the coolies had to make a 
considerable detour in order to bring supplies and 
letters to Kellioya. There were days and nights of 
wild storms, of thunder and lightning and incessant 
rain—the heavy tropical rain that descends in gray 
sheets, and looks as if it had been poured from 
some giant receptacle. 

One afternoon it cleared a little. Matthew had 
gone down to the factory, where work was in full 
swing. Viola, who had not left the house for some 
days, resolved to go for a walk. She put on a mack¬ 
intosh, coat, and cap and went along the path that 
led across the hills to the river. She had not once 
been there since the day of Hartley Brett’s death. 
But she wished to see the Kelli-Oya in its wild mood 
after these days of rain and tempest. 

Fed by innumerable streams from the heights 
above, the river had overflowed its banks. It was 
rushing wildly down its new-made course, tossing 
the discolored spray high in the air. Trunks of 
trees, great bowlders of rock and stone, were swept 


VIOLA HUDSON 


330 

onward by those fierce imperious waters, as if they 
had been trifles of no moment at all. The wooden 
bridge had been carried away, and but little re¬ 
mained to show where it had once stood. 

Viola sat down on a ledge of rock at a little dis¬ 
tance from the bank, watching the scene with fasci¬ 
nated eyes. Even there the spray wetted her face 
and hair. The wind sighed in the grove of keena- 
trees beyond the river. 

The last seven or eight months had passed very 
quietly and monotonously for her at Kellioya. 
There had been no outward changes. At Christ¬ 
mas she had begged Matthew to let her go to 
Nuwara Eliya for a few days; it was so many, many 
months since she had even heard Mass or been to 
Confession. But he curtly refused, and seemed to 
suspect that she had planned a meeting there with 
Garth Bennet. Sadly she had to give up the idea. 
It was said that sometimes a priest from one of the 
Missions would come to stay for a day or two in the 
neighborhood and say Mass for the benefit of the 
Catholics there, but since Viola’s arrival he had not 
once been, and the only time she had heard Mass 
had been when a Jesuit on his travels had quite un¬ 
expectedly spent the night at Kuduwatte. 

Presently she heard footsteps. The place was 
lonely, and she wondered who it could be. The 
steps came with measured tread along the path that 
ran from the river in the direction of Madura. Yes, 
and it was here, not far from Brett’s bungalow 
where the two estates joined, that long ago Garth 
Bennet had asked her to meet him. But of course 
it was very unlikely that he should come to-day. 
And she felt almost too desolate to care. These 
days of pitiless rain, of enforced confinement to 
the house, had told upon her nerves. She was wast¬ 
ing her youth here at Kellioya, seeing no one but 
Hilary—too young yet to be a companion— 


VIOLA HUDSON 


33 i 

Rebecca, who grew daily more grim and silent, and 
Matthew, ill-conditioned, misanthropic, suspicious, 
tyrannical. There was no consolation anywhere. 
The tears rushed to her eyes. . . . 

She looked up and saw Garth Bennet coming to¬ 
ward her. The smile of pleasure upon his face was 
very agreeable to a woman who had been shut away 
so long from any kindly companionship. 

“Mrs. Mansfield! What luck!” His boyish 
voice was very hearty. He gripped her hand in his 
firm brown one. 

Viola smiled, awkwardly conscious of the tears 
she had not had time to wipe away. 

“I say, is anything wrong? You haven’t been ill, 
have you?” 

From his great height he looked down into her 
eyes. 

“Oh, I’m never ill. But the wet weather has got 
on my nerves.” 

“It’s pretty beastly,” he agreed, “still it’s bear¬ 
able when you’ve a personal interest in an adequate 
monsoon. We’ve wanted every drop of rain we’ve 
had.” 

He sat down upon a rock near Viola, and to¬ 
gether they watched the furious antics of the river. 

“I should have been over to see you, for I go out 
in all weathers, if Mr. Hudson hadn’t given me so 
clearly to understand that he preferred me to re¬ 
main away,” he observed, presently. 

“He hates having people,” acknowledged Viola, 
whose loyalty to her brother was now near the 
breaking-point. “And it’s so dreary never seeing 
anyone.” 

“Well, he gave me good advice anyhow. When 
I recovered my temper I resolved to take it. I’ve 
been working hard. I’d like you to see my bunga¬ 
low. And the new coolie-lines too—the old ones 
were horrible!” 


332 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“But the old ones were better than ours,” said 
Viola. 

“I’ve never seen yours, but I shouldn’t have 
thought it was possible for any to be worse than 
mine,” he said, guardedly, for he was aware how 
ill Matthew housed his labor. “And I think it’s 
every man’s duty to take proper care of the people 
who work for him. I like to think my coolies are 
well and snug and happy, and have all the rice and 
betel-nut they can possibly want.” His gay laugh 
rang out like music. 

“I’m sure they must be happy,” she said. 

“And the bungalow—I wish you could see it, 
Mrs. Mansfield. I’ve got teak paneling in some of 
the rooms—it looks topping. I do wish you could 
persuade Hudson to bring you over.” 

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.” 

“I should so like your advice about some of the 
details of the drawing-room. They tell me wall¬ 
paper doesn’t do out here, it gets damp and peels off. 
I thought perhaps a cream distemper, and then a 
shelf with book-cases below, and the pictures hang¬ 
ing just above it. And perhaps I could work in 
some kind of frieze, as the room is so very lofty. 
My carpenters are hard at work, and I’ve had a 
lot of the stuff sent out from England.” 

“And you’ve never been home all this time?” she 
asked. 

His face clouded. “No—I couldn’t quite face it, 
though the little chap still misses me—he hasn’t for¬ 
gotten Daddy. You’re lucky to have your baby 
with you.” 

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I should never have 
come without her.” 

“I may go home for a bit in August or September. 
Then I should stay for the shooting. And perhaps 
next winter I might bring Kenneth out for a few 
months.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


333 

“It must be lovely to go home, even for a few 
months. Especially if you’ve a home waiting for 
you,” she said. 

“Yes, but Stonewood isn’t what it was. I’ve 
never felt settled there since my wife died. But of 
course I can’t be away forever, though my brother- 
in-law looks after it well. He’s living there—he’s 
my sister’s husband—and they’ve got three ripping 
kiddies, who keep Kenneth company. I say, Mrs. 
Mansfield, don’t you think you might walk across to 
Madura? Now—I mean?” His face colored a 
little as he made this bold request. 

“Oh, no,” she said, quickly, “and there isn’t time. 
I must be getting back—Matthew will be wondering 
what’s become of me.” There was some confusion 
in her manner, as if the suggestion had startled her. 
She was about to rise but Garth stretched out a de¬ 
taining hand. 

“No, don’t go, please. I haven’t seen you for 
such ages. And I . . . I’ve wanted so to see you. 
I’ve hoped and hoped we might meet—just like 
this—by chance.” There was no mistaking now the 
desperate earnestness of his voice. “So don’t go 
until you’ve promised at least that you’ll come again. 
Very soon—in the afternoon, just about this time. 
And if we were to meet a little farther down beyond 
the bend of the river, it would be even safer than 
this.” 

She looked at him with that cool grave gaze of 
hers. So calm, so almost maternal, as if he had 
been a pleading boy. 

“Perhaps I may. But I can’t promise. You 
mustn’t count upon it.” 

“I shall count upon it, though,” he said, eagerly. 
“Mrs. Mansfield—it’s beginning to matter most 
frightfully to me whether I see you or not.” 

He had risen now and was standing before her. 

“You mustn’t let it matter,” she answered. Her 



VIOLA HUDSON 


334 

face and voice were sad, as if the remembrance of a 
past sorrow were affecting her now. That marriage 
of hers I He ground his teeth. 

He felt that somehow too she was pitying him. 
Pitying him perhaps because she guessed that he was 
beginning to love her. 

Dusk was falling now, wrapping the mountains 
in dim blue veils. The rain had quite ceased, and 
the summits of the hills were clear of cloud, though 
in the clefts and hollows the vapor lay like thick 
white scarves. 

Viola rose to her feet. “Good-by,” she said, 
putting out her hand. 

He held it. “No, don’t go. Or at least let me 
walk a little way with you.” 

“Only a very little way, then. You mustn’t come 
far. It would only make trouble between me and 
my brother if he were to see us.” 

“But does that matter? You aren’t dependent 
upon him, surely?” 

“I am dependent upon him for a home for myself 
and Hilary.” 

“A home! In the wilds of Ceylon? Where 
you’re buried alive?” he said, in angry scorn. 

“Ah, but that’s just what I want . . . To be 
buried alive,” she said, and it seemed to him that 
her sadness for the first time held something of 
bitterness. 

They walked together slowly to the top of the 
hill. Across the intervening plantations of tea they 
could see the lights of Hudson’s bungalow shining 
like golden stars through the dusk. The hills be¬ 
hind it rose darkly, covered thickly with the dense 
jungle, that seemed to make them one with the night. 

“Don’t come any farther, please,” said Viola. 
“Good-night.” 

“Good-night,” said Bennet, reluctantly. But 


VIOLA HUDSON 


335 

when he took her hand in farewell, he dragged it to 
his lips and kissed it. They looked into each other’s 
eyes. And in her face he seemed to see joy mingled 
with fear. 

“Don’t think of me—” she broke out, suddenly. 
Then she left his side and walked quickly onward. 

She was late in getting home, much later than 
she had intended to be. If Matthew had returned 
from the factory, he would wonder what had be¬ 
come of her and why she had not been there as 
usual to give him his tea. She was afraid, too, that 
he might come out to meet her. All the time she 
had been with Garth, she had feared that Matthew 
might appear in search of her. 

In the garden she met her brother. He was evi¬ 
dently waiting for her. 

“Been for a walk?” he said, eying her suspi¬ 
ciously. 

“Yes, Matthew. I was tired of being shut up in 
the house for so long.” 

“Did you meet anyone?” 

“Yes—Sir Garth Bennet.” She looked him 
straight in the eyes as she spoke. For months his 
name had not been mentioned between them. 

“Oh, that young fool! How’s his wonderful 
rubber getting on?” 

“He didn’t mention it.” She turned away and 
went into the house. Matthew watched her. 

“So he’s not choked off yet,” he said to himself. 
“Well, if I catch him hanging round here, I’ll give 
him the biggest thrashing he’s ever had.” 

For the next few days Viola was conscious that 
her brother was keeping her under his eye. Evi¬ 
dently his suspicions had been aroused. She re¬ 
sented this usurpation of an authority to which he 
had no right, but she was compelled to accept the 
petty insulting suspicion as part of the price she had 


33 6 VIOLA HUDSON 

to pay for living in his house. It was a comfort 
to feel that Hilary—such a delicate baby at first— 
was thriving in the pure delicious mountain air of 
Ceylon. She was as plump and rosy as any English 
baby could possibly be. This more than anything 
helped to reconcile Viola to the solitude of her lot. 
She lived for her child and between the two there 
existed a deep love. Hilary adored her mother; 
she liked and respected Rebecca, recognizing that 
she was not a person to be trifled with, and she had 
an instinctive dislike to her Uncle Matthew. He 
didn’t care for children and he was deeply ashamed 
of Hilary’s origin. He wondered Viola should be 
so proud of her. It was as if the child were in some 
measure conscious of his antagonism. 

Sometimes in the days that followed, Viola had a 
queer longing to walk down to the river and seek 
the spot indicated by Bennet, just beyond the bend 
where the Kelli-Oya flowed into the Madura prop¬ 
erty. She wondered if he were waiting there, per¬ 
haps every evening at the same hour, destined to 
be disappointed. But she was afraid that if the 
meeting took place Matthew would hear of it. She 
could not risk a scene between the two men. Hud¬ 
son was rather less tall than Bennet, but he was 
much heavier and far more powerful. 

Besides, Matthew’s suspicions were undoubtedly 
aroused. There was no chance of escaping his vigi¬ 
lance. 

Her outlook had changed a little since that last 
meeting with Garth. He had made things different 
for her. She didn't want to leave Kellioya. The 
matchless beauty of her surroundings wove spells 
about her. The knowledge that this man’s love was 
beginning to be hers, gave her a certain sense of 
ease and well-being. She was no longer quite friend¬ 
less. The heart that Esme Craye had broken and 
crushed seemed to move and stir again. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


337 


CHAPTER XI 

O NE day Viola received a little note from Mr. 

Keane, telling her that he was expecting the 
priest, Father O’Farrell, to spend a few days with 
him. Mass w r ould be said in the little chapel down 
by the river just beyond Hartley Brett’s old bunga¬ 
low, on the following morning as well as on Sunday 
and the two succeeding (days. Except for Rebecca, 
Viola was the only European Catholic in the district. 
Matthew had an Eurasian conductor of Portuguese 
descent who was a Catholic, and of course many of 
the coolies belonged to the old Faith. Notice was 
sent round to the estates in the neighborhood, and 
provision was made for the coolies to attend, espe¬ 
cially on the Sunday. Keane added in his letter that 
he had made arrangements to have tea and coffee 
ready after Mass for those who attended—it would 
be served by Matthew’s permission in the little 
bungalow. Keane was aware that practically every 
member of the little Catholic community around 
Kellioya would attend Mass fasting. And Father 
O’Farrell would be busy all day long, visiting the 
sick, and hearing confessions. 

Mass was at half past six, and it was scarcely 
light when Viola and Rebecca emerged from the 
bungalow and started forth on their walk to the 
river. They had left Hilary in charge of a faithful 
old ayah who was perfectly trustworthy but inclined 
to be injudicious in the matter of giving her things 
to eat. 

Matthew met the two women on his way to 
muster; he gave his sister a curt good-morning and 
passed on. 

The little chapel had been built many years ago 
by a devout Catholic who had lived at Madura. 
After his death its furniture had been removed to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


338 

another church in a more populous district, and for 
a time Church of England services had been held 
there. Now it was never used except for Mass, 
and the Church of England services were held in 
Mr. Keane’s bungalow. 

The building had rather fallen into decay. There 
was little left now in the way of interior decoration. 
There was an altar, but the altar stone had been 
removed with the rest of the furnishings. The 
priest invariably brought his own portable altar 
with him. A great crucifix still hung there on the 
blackened peeling walls; there was an ancient con¬ 
fessional that had suffered from the depredations 
of white ants, and over the door could still be seen 
a half-obliterated roughly-executed fresco of Our 
Lady of Good Counsel, to whom the chapel had 
been dedicated. Viola had often visited the poor 
little place in passing, had knelt to pray in the crazy 
benches, and had felt a compassion for its desola¬ 
tion, its moldy decay. Everywhere the destructive 
energy of the white ants was visible, combining with 
the damp and neglect to render the building less and 
less fitted for its holy and solemn use. 

When she entered it that morning with Rebecca, 
she found the chapel almost full of people though 
it was still quite early. There were quite a number 
of coolies present, men, women and children; a few 
Eurasians, and kneeling in the front bench two Eu¬ 
ropeans. Viola saw at once they were Mr. Keane 
and Garth Bennet. She and Rebecca made their 
confessions, and then knelt down at a side bench. 
Presently the priest came in and walked up to the 
altar, accompanied by two little native boys as 
acolytes. 

Viola thought that the Holy Sacrifice in all its 
solemn simplicity gained rather than lost in those 
forlorn surroundings. There was so much devotion 
in the congregation. Everyone in the chapel except 


VIOLA HUDSON 


339 

the two Englishmen received Holy Communion. 
Bennet watched Viola almost enviously as she went 
up to the rails with Rebecca following her. She 
knelt there with bowed head. He remembered her 
prayers by Brett’s death-bed; it seemed to him that 
he could still hear her saying, Most Sacred Heart 
of Jesus y I trust in Thee. He had sometimes found 
himself half-unconsciously repeating those words 
aloud in the solitude of Madura, and always they 
had brought a message of hope, and had been an 
^incentive to prayer. 

It has often been said that the wonderful music, 
the fragrance of the incense, constitute the most 
potent attractions of the Catholic Church, yet surely 
never can the Divine Sacrifice make such an instant 
and powerful appeal as when it is offered in sur¬ 
roundings at once humble and poor, stripped of all 
adjuncts of music and incense, celebrated perhaps in 
upper room or barn, as if to recall the fact that 
Bethlehem, the first House of Bread, had only 
offered a humble stable for the reception of her 
Divine Master. 

It was the first time that Garth Bennet had ever 
been present at Mass, and he could not deny that 
he was profoundly affected by it. He was glad that 
Keane had suggested he should accompany him. He 
had dined and slept at Kuduwatte last night, and at 
dinner had met Father O’Farrell, a simple, earnest, 
zealous missionary priest. 

When Mass was over, Viola did not at once rise 
from her knees. She wanted to savor these 
moments of sanctifying grace, and as she knelt there 
she made an offering of all that was antipathetic 
and difficult in her present life. The loneliness and 
solitude that were so unnecessary, since she could 
have had friends if Matthew would have permitted 
it; the absence of any relief or distraction, all the 
things indeed against which her youth rebelled. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


340 

She saw now that this might well be one of those 
shaping-times for the soul that are so terrible in 
their apparent deadly monotony, and yet so neces¬ 
sary for its spiritual development. 

She was the last to leave the chapel, and accom¬ 
panied by Rebecca she walked on to Hartley Brett’s 
old bungalow. There she found quite a little party 
of people all partaking of tea or coffee, toast and 
plantains, the simple meal which Mr. Keane in his 
forethought had provided. Keane and Bennet sat 
at one side of the table, and on the other were 
Father O’Farrell and the Eurasian conductor. The 
democracy of the Church was visible here in the 
little assemblage, for planters and their Eurasian 
assistants never as a rule have meals in common. 

Viola and the priest were introduced to each 
other, but there was little conversation at that early 
hour. Father O’Farrell told her, however, that the 
Blessed Sacrament would remain in the Tabernacle 
during the three or four days of his visit; he gave 
her a key of the chapel and told her to come when¬ 
ever she could. She resolved that she would spend 
long hours there, and that sometimes she would 
bring little Hilary. 

Garth waited on her, bringing her coffee and 
toast and jam. He seemed to realize that she didn’t 
want to talk, that she hadn’t quite emerged from 
the effect of that mystical holy hour through which 
she had just passed. And he envied her, her faith, 
yes, and something more. Her faith in the Catholic 
Church; her possession of that wonderful spiritual 
heritage. “I wish Fd had that to give to Kenneth,” 
he thought. 

He felt that this religion of hers enhanced her 
charm and deepened that touch of mystery he was 
unable to separate from her. It was part of her, a 
beautiful, inalienable part. 

To-day she was dressed entirely in black—a thin 



VIOLA HUDSON 


34i 

filmy black. He had never seen her in black before, 
and it gave him the impression that he was seeing 
her from a new angle. It suited her to perfection, 
accentuating the pallid oval of her face, the shadows 
of her hair. 

“Well, we ought to be going, Bennet,” said Mr. 
Keane, rising. “We’re late as it is.” 

Garth got up a little reluctantly. As he said 
good-by to Viola, he said in a low tone: “I sup¬ 
pose you will come again to-morrow?” 

“Yes, I hope to come every day,” she answered. 

The conductor also departed and so did Rebecca, 
leaving Viola alone with Father O’Farrell. 

“I shall hear confessions all this afternoon and 
up till ten o’clock to-night,” said the priest. “There 
are so many stragglers from the other estates that 
haven’t come in yet. Sir Garth has kindly promised 
to see about his own coolies.” 

Father O’Farrell had been in his box since five 
o’clock that morning, and had had a constant stream 
of penitents. 

He knew little of Viola’s story, beyond the mere 
fact that she was living apart from her husband. 
Keane had told him this, and they had discussed 
the loneliness of her position in her brother’s house 
at Kellioya. Last night at dinner he had met 
Bennet for the first time, and had learned from him 
the story of young Brett’s death. It showed him 
that Mrs. Mansfield’s simple prayers had made a 
very profound impression upon the young Protes¬ 
tant, who had stood there listening. 

Sometimes an episode of that kind had been 
known to turn a man’s thoughts almost with vio¬ 
lence, to the Catholic Church. All priests are 
aware that the Holy Spirit makes powerful use of 
simple, common things to effect His wonderful pur¬ 
poses and arrest wandering souls. It might even 
be that Bennet would prove to be permanently in- 


342 


VIOLA HUDSON 


fluenced by that scene, and by the simple ejaculatory 
prayer he had faithfully carried in his heart ever 
since. 

Viola went down alone that afternoon to pray 
in the chapel. Spiritually starved as she was at 
Kellioya, this time of prayer and meditation was 
like a golden interlude, and it passed only too 
quickly. At first Father O’Farrell had been there, 
confessing penitents, but he was called away to a 
case of sickness, and she was left alone. Dusk 
filled the little building. A glint of gold shone 
from the crown of Our Lady of Good Counsel. A 
red lamp burned before the Tabernacle upon the 
altar, and made a vivid point of ruby light in the 
gloom. She felt the Divine Presence very near 
then. So close to her ... so intimately concerned 
with all her trials, hopes, aspirations, failures. 
Waiting, listening, appealing, out here in this lonely 
place among the Ceylon mountains. 

It was a long time before Father O’Farrell re¬ 
turned, but it had not seemed long to Viola. When 
he came in he genuflected and then approached her. 

“I’ve come to relieve you now, Mrs. Mansfield. 
You must be tired.” 

She lifted her face. “Oh, no, I’m not tired.” 

She rose from her knees and genuflected, bowing 
her head as she did so. Although it was now dark 
she went away reluctantly. She would have liked 
to remain watching all night, like some nun of the 
Perpetual Adoration. 

Outside, the night scene was very peaceful. The 
dark blue dusk filled the world; overhead a star or 
two flickered. The silence was broken only by the 
steady flow of the river, the soughing of wind in 
the keena-trees. She stood for a few minutes by 
the banks of the Kelli-Oya, watching the white swift 
flow of the water, pallid, luminous. As she neared 
the place where the bridge had been washed away 


VIOLA HUDSON 


343 

she saw Garth Bennet. There was no mistaking his 
tall figure although she could not see his face. 

“May I walk with you, Mrs. Mansfield?” 

Viola would have preferred the solitary walk; 
the mystical atmosphere of the little chapel still 
possessed her, and the human interruption jarred a 
little. But she felt that Bennet had perhaps been 
waiting there for a considerable time in the hope of 
being allowed to accompany her part of the way 
home. 

“Please let me,” he said, aware that she hesitated. 
“I have something to say.” 

“You must not come far, then,” said Viola. 

She had a curious dread of meeting Matthew, 
feeling that it would inevitably precipitate a quarrel 
between the two men. 

They climbed the hill in silence. On each side of 
them the low bushes of tea stretched away appar¬ 
ently for miles in their neat symmetrical rows. It 
was dark, the path was very narrow, Bennet some¬ 
times put out his hand and touched Viola’s arm 
lightly in order to guide her. 

The little contact gave him courage for he said 
abruptly: 

“I know you’re a Catholic and that your Church 
is very strict about marriage. But isn’t there any 
hope of your being able to get yours dissolved? 
You see, I want to marry you. I want you to be 
my wife.” 

He stopped; his voice was choked with emotion. 

Viola’s heart beat a little faster. But she did not 
feel able then to tell him the story of her so-called 
marriage. She had never told anyone except her 
two brothers, and she felt that to know the truth 
would destroy Garth’s love for her, just as the 
moment when it was beginning to count for some¬ 
thing in her own life. She knew, by this little fear 
which till now she had cherished unconsciously, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 44 

that she had begun to care for him. His gentle¬ 
ness, his courtesy, his devotion had touched her. 
He was unlike any man she had ever known. He 
was utterly without Esme’s brutal almost ill-bred 
egoism that had not hesitated to immolate her 
youth, just as he was without Matthew’s rough 
coarse manners and point of view. But she longed, 
even while she feared, to tell him that she was per¬ 
fectly free, that there existed no barrier such as 
he believed between them. 

“I couldn’t marry you,” she said, quietly. 

“Yes, yes, I know that as things are it isn’t pos¬ 
sible. I’m the last to wish you to do anything that 
your religion forbids—I’ve seen and known what it 
means to you. . . . But can nothing be done? You 
were only seventeen, were you not? You could 
hardly have known what you were doing—you must 
have been most cruelly taken in!” 

“I was quite old enough to know that I was 
offending Almighty God by disobeying the laws of 
Elis Church,” she said, seriously; “even at the time 
I felt that I should be punished—that I deserved to 
be punished. You see, I was brought up to realize 
that whenever one did wrong there would inevitably 
be—punishment. . . .” 

“Punishment! You poor child . . he said, 
compassionately. “I only wish I could bear it for 
you. I’d do anything in the world for you.” He 
clasped her hand in his and held it with a firm pres¬ 
sure. “Let’s try at least,” he said; “you might ask 
Father O’Farrell if there isn’t a way out, just the 
ghost of a hope . . . Viola, we could be married 
and live at Madura while we’re both young enough 
to enjoy this free colonial life. And I’d have the 
boy out—the children could play together. We 
could have such a happy perfect home, you and I, 
and Kenneth and Hilary.” 

Hilary . . . The word seemed to smite her. 


VIOLA HUDSON 345 

She withdrew her hand, and said in a cold, proud 
tone, “Can you keep a secret? A secret only known 
to four people ?” 

“Of course I can I” 

He must know the truth, and it would be easier 
to tell it to him now under cover of the kindly dark¬ 
ness. 

“I was never married,” she said, simply. 

Garth fell back a little. She knew then that she 
had dealt him a wholly unexpected blow. She was 
free—there was nothing to prevent their mar¬ 
riage—but would he want to marry her, now that 
he knew to the full her shame and dishonor? She 
went on quietly but her voice held a deadly precision. 

“Hilary is an illegitimate child. Now you know 
why I live here with Matthew, why I try to be 
patient, to bear everything, to do as he wishes. He 
has given us a home.” There was the least suspicion 
now of a break in her voice. 

Garth was still speechless. It seemed to him in¬ 
credible. A woman too with such profound faith, 
who could pray as Viola prayed. She had seemed 
to him in the chapel that morning little less than 
a saint. 

“I can’t believe it!” he cried. “It can’t be true!” 
He looked at her in anguish. 

“It’s quite true. I went through a ceremony 
of marriage—I was, you see, very ignorant about 
Protestant ceremonies. I thought it was all right— 
I believed that our marriage was at least legal. It 
was only some weeks later that I learned it was an 
elaborate hoax.” 

“Who was this man?” 

“I can’t tell you. I have never told anyone. 
Even Matthew doesn’t know.” 

“He could have been made to marry you. Why 
didn’t you ask advice?” 

“I could have married him. I ... I refused.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


346 

“Refused?” Through all his indignation she 
could detect a note of incredulity. “What made you 
refuse ?” 

“It meant renouncing my religion. Not only for 
myself but for Hilary,” she said, in a low tone. 

They moved slowly onward up the pale quartz- 
strewn path. Garth was pondering over the ter¬ 
rible little story she had just revealed to him. She 
had been deceived—by some scoundrel. Someone 
whom she had perhaps loved with that first heed¬ 
less love of young girlhood. Then an ugly little 
doubt seized him. Was the story true? Somehow 
in spite of himself, in spite too of his love for her, 
he knew that his idol was smirched with a little dust. 
It no longer possessed that brilliant whiteness. She 
had passed in Ceylon for a woman who was sepa¬ 
rated from her husband, perhaps thinking that this 
version of the story would keep her from all moles¬ 
tation. Men knowing she was a Catholic would 
thus be less likely to approach her with offers of 
marriage, believing that she was not free to marry. 
But he in his eager love had sought to break down 
the barrier—the wholly imaginary barrier—that 
divided them. And then he had been called upon 
to listen to this ugly little story of dishonor and 
shame. His pity at that moment was more for 
Hilary than for Viola. What would the future of 
such a child be? They could hardly let her marry 
without disclosing the story of her mother’s shame. 

“Who was this man?” he repeated, almost with 
violence. “Mrs. Mansfield—Viola—I insist upon 
your telling me!" His voice rang out with a sharp 
note of authority; she recoiled before it. 

“I can never tell you. I’ve told you my secret— 
try to forget it. Try—” she turned and looked at 
him swiftly, “to forget me!” 

So she had foreseen that her confession even if 
it did not kill his love would assuredly change it. 



VIOLA HUDSON 


347 

“I could never forget you,” he said, “I love you 
too much for that.” He had the feeling that his 
heart must be broken. Something more bitter than 
death divided them. Death is indeed one of the 
kindliest of separators; it seldom leaves any bitter¬ 
ness, only the pure sorrow of loss that enshrines 
the perfect image without flaw. 

“You must forget me,” she said, very tranquilly. 
“You see how impossible it would be for you to 
marry me. People would continually be asking 
questions about my first husband and how long he 
had been dead! People always ask questions of that 
kind, you know—you don’t notice them unless you 
have something to hide.” 

“Why must it be such a secret? All the world 
ought to know his odious, infamous name!” 

“I could never tell you,” she repeated. 

“If you married me, you would have to give me 
the right—the power—to confirm your story!” 

It was unwise to speak thus, and he felt even in 
the darkness that she shuddered and shivered, as if 
he had wounded her very flesh. 

“Oh, you don’t believe me, then?” she stam¬ 
mered. 

Already he was going from her, already his 
thoughts of her were touched with a subtle poison. 
Perhaps he had cherished some foolish but perfect 
and peerless image of her in his heart and he was 
now envisaging its slow definite defacement. 

“I want to believe you, Viola,” he said, eagerly, 
“but this has made a difference—I should be deceiv¬ 
ing you if I didn’t tell you so at once. I must 
think it over.” 

His words flicked at her pride. “Please leave 
me —there’s really nothing for you to think over. 
I couldn’t marry you—as far as I’m concerned the 
whole thing is utterly finished. So don’t torture me 
now with your doubts and disbeliefs.” 



VIOLA HUDSON 


348 

And he had asked what was tantamount to a 
proof of her story! . . . 

She hurried down the hill. As she went he 
seemed to catch the faint sound of her sobbing. He 
turned abruptly away. He did not dare follow her 
to comfort her. But he knew that but for this her 
love might have been his, just as his own was most 
surely hers. 

Hilary stood between them. It wasn’t likely 
that she would ever consent to part with Hilary; 
she adored the child too much. With some women, 
and she perhaps was one, no child was ever so dear 
as the first-born. It was not only dearer but it was 
different. But on the other hand how impossible 
it would be for him to have Hilary under his roof 
evoking eternal questionings. . . . 

“Hilary Mansfield? Oh, was Lady Bennet mar¬ 
ried before? What Mansfield? Any relation 
to—?” 

And he could almost hear a malicious feminine 
voice answering unctuously: “Ah, my dear, she 
never speaks of her first marriage, and you may de¬ 
pend there’s some mystery . . 


CHAPTER XII 

G ARTH walked slowly back to Madura. In 
these few months of residence he had trans¬ 
formed the place beyond belief. It was extraordi¬ 
narily perfect, and as he entered it that night its 
beauty seemed to welcome him. The walls of his 
study—too high for easy decoration as walls almost 
always are in the East—were cream-washed, and all 
round the room there was a paneling of teak to the 
height of four feet. The panels were very beauti¬ 
fully carved with that precision and symmetry of 
design and execution which is the peculiar quality 


VIOLA HUDSON 


349 


of native work. Above this paneling, but not more 
than a foot above, hung his pictures, water-colors 
and proof-etchings by men whose names were then 
beginning to be famous. There were some good 
Oriental rugs on the parquet floor. People had 
shaken their heads over his parquet, reminding him 
of those traditional devourers, the white ants, but 
Garth had told his critics with a gay shrug of the 
shoulders that nothing lasted forever. In two re¬ 
cesses beside the open fire-place—for fires are often 
necessary in the evening at those altitudes—there 
were two tall narrow book-cases filled with books. 
The furniture was beautiful, and there were some 
large comfortable easy chairs and sofas. There 
was a table covered with English newspapers, care¬ 
fully folded. The whole thing was as much like 
England as he could make it, and he was beginning 
to be pleased and satisfied with the result of his 
efforts. There was a room at Stonewood very like 
this one. And it was ready—ready and waiting for 
Viola. But his dream of forming a group there 
with their two children had been abruptly and 
cruelly shattered. Ele couldn’t have Hilary with 
them. People didn’t. It wasn’t possible. Sooner 
or later these things got out. A slip of the tongue— 
a false step—nothing was easier or more irrevoc¬ 
able. And his mother and sisters would naturally 
ask questions concerning his wife’s first marriage. 
To-night he began to realize the improbability of 
Viola’s ever entering Madura as his wife. She 
wouldn’t give up her child—what woman worthy of 
the name would do such a thing? And he shrank 
from Hilary with her strange green eyes. His mind 
was confused, his thoughts were in a strange whirl. 
Perhaps he didn’t really love Viola, after all. If 
he truly cared for her, surely he would be prepared 
to make sacrifices in order to win her for his wife. 
He must keep away from her for the present, until 






350 


VIOLA HUDSON 


he had made perfectly certain of his love. When 
she had said to him, “I was never married,” he had 
felt as if something had snapped in his heart. He 
had felt too that he was looking upon a strange 
sinister woman who had ensnared him. For her 
story on the face of it was so utterly incredible. 
From beginning to end so unlikely. Such things 
as sham ceremonies of marriage couldn’t really take 
place in these days! The dreadful little doubt still 
remained in his mind. 

•She had blamed herself only in so far as she had 
disobeyed the laws of her Church. But that sacri¬ 
fice she had made for Hilary—it was inconceivable ! 
To refuse marriage when she knew that a child was 
going to be born to her? . . . He tried to believe 
it and failed. Yet she seemed to accept her punish¬ 
ment so simply, this punishment that was expressed 
in her solitude, the monotony of her life with her 
uncongenial, ill-conditioned brother. 

All Garth’s chivalry had been stirred at the sight 
of this woman—so young, almost a girl. He had 
wanted to rescue her, to bring back love and happi¬ 
ness to her life. She was to have come here, to 
this place of peace, so that they might both build 
anew after the storms and shipwrecks of the past. 
They could have led a beautiful ordered life, here 
at Madura. But his dreams were shattered. She 
was free—there was nothing to prevent their mar¬ 
riage taking place as soon as the formalities could 
be completed. The supposititious obstacle had been 
dissolved. And yet they were farther apart than 
they had ever been. Of course he had been cruel in 
his first pain at hearing the truth. She had been re¬ 
duced to breaking-point by his undisguised incredu¬ 
lity. That cry of hers: “Don’t torture me with your 
doubts and disbeliefs,” had appalled him, with its 
naked bitterness. It was like looking at a soul on 
fire. . . . 



VIOLA HUDSON 


35i 

Because he had been so quickly capable of making 
her suffer, he believed that she must in some meas¬ 
ure at least return his love. Otherwise, surely, he 
would not have had this power to hurt her. 

“I must have time to think it over,” he said. He 
rose and stepped out into the veranda and went 
round to the other side of the house. From this 
point he could see the hill upon which Matthew’s 
bungalow stood. Above Kellioya the Southern 
Cross burned like a group of immense lamps. Fire¬ 
flies tangled the low shrubs of the garden. There 
was a scent of roses and jessamine. He could hear 
the barking of jackals in the distance, the hooting 
of an owl in flight. The low steady murmur of run¬ 
ning water reached him, the voice of the Kelli-Oya, 
subsiding now after these few days of fine weather. 

“I can’t live without her—I can’t,” he said, 
staring at the scene with haggard eyes. 

He wouldn’t of course go to Mass in the chapel 
to-morrow. But he could picture her there, just as 
he had seen her this morning, her slight black-clad 
form, her pale veiled face, that immature girlish 
look of hers. . . . And then afterward the little 
meal in poor young Brett’s bungalow, where he had 
first seen her. His thoughts went back swiftly to 
the morning of Brett’s death. Her prayers . . . 
He had believed then in her absolute holiness. A 
woman must surely be a saint to pray like that, so 
simply, without any suggestion of cant. In the 
universal shipwreck that had overwhelmed him, en¬ 
gulfing him with fierce waves, he seemed to be 
plunging his hands downward toward a lost At¬ 
lantis, lying concealed beneath that cruel sea, cry¬ 
ing, crying, Viola’s name. . . . 

It was a relief to Viola that Garth was not pres¬ 
ent in the chapel on the following morning. She 
hoped indeed that for the present he would keep 



VIOLA HUDSON 


35 2 

out of her sight as much as even Matthew could 
possibly desire. It was not that she loved him, but 
she had certainly come very close to loving him. 
There was something in his youth and ardor that 
appealed to her. She had even, after their conver¬ 
sation by the river the other evening, seriously 
considered the question of a possible marriage with 
him, realizing that she would thus secure a settled 
home for herself and Hilary with a man whom she 
would surely learn to love most deeply and grate¬ 
fully. Not perhaps with the same sense of worship 
she had felt for Esme—that was an emotion that 
seldom manifested itself more than once in any life¬ 
time. And it did not always spell either happiness 
or permanence. Her own disillusionment had been 
very complete, and she was aware that nothing 
could ever stir those dead ashes to flame. 

But that picture of securing a home for herself 
and her child had abruptly faded. Viola had seen 
only too clearly the effect her little confession had 
made upon Garth Bennet. In his sharp and undis¬ 
guised recoil, she felt that he had represented both 
the opinion and the attitude the world would dis¬ 
play if it ever learned the truth about her story. 
It was indeed the thought that this attitude was a 
representative one, that had scourged her into that 
final appeal for mercy and silence. She had cried 
out under the pain. She had run from him sobbing, 
ashamed that he should see her tears. 

Her confession had been a most hideous surprise 
to him. In his own suffering he had hurt her too. 
Tie hadn’t believed her. Women, placed as she 
was, always tried to make out a good case for them¬ 
selves. It was his sudden shrewd look of incredulity 
that had stabbed her to the heart. 

“Do you think I could go to Colombo next week 



VIOLA HUDSON 


353 

for a little?” Viola asked her brother at breakfast 
on the following day. 

“What on earth do you want to go there for?” 
he growled. ; 

“I want a change. I ... I don’t feel well.” 

“You look perfectly well. If you would only 
occupy yourself a little more it would be better for 
you. But you live here in absolute idleness.” 

“I do all there is to do. But seriously, Matthew 
—I should like to go to Colombo for a few days.” 

“Well, I can’t let you have the money,” said 
Matthew, in a tone of great decision. 

“Oh, I can pay if it comes to that. I should take 
Hilary and Rebecca and stay quite a fortnight.” 

“It's perfect nonsense! And hotels are very ex¬ 
pensive. You’d be writing to me for more money 
in no time. Besides, I won’t have you gadding about 
Colombo alone. You’ll have Bennet following you. 
Don’t you suppose I’ve got eyes in my head?” 

Viola listened in apparent patience. She sat there 
quite motionless. She did not change color at the 
mention of Bennet’s name. 

“So put the idea out of your head at once,” added 
Matthew. 

“Matthew—” she said, desperately, “I’m sorry 
—but I mean to go. You’ve always thwarted me 
whenever I’ve suggested having a little change. But 
this time it’s absolutely necessary. Of course if you 
don’t want to have us back you must say so.” 

She spoke in a cold decided tone. 

“Does Bennet know of this famous plan?” 
sneered Matthew. 

“He certainly does not.” 

“When did you last see him?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“I told you I wouldn’t have you meeting himi!” 

“You should have told him, then, that you didn’t 
wish him to come to Mass yesterday morning.” 


354 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“He went there to see you, I suppose!” 

“Matthew—this plan of mine only concerns my¬ 
self. I’m sick to death of Kellioya—I must go away 
for a little. You can’t prevent me. You needn’t 
have us back if you don’t like.” 

Matthew, however, had no wish that his sister 
should leave Kellioya permanently. He needed 
the money she paid so regularly for her own keep, 
and Rebecca’s and Hilary’s. It relieved him of so 
much outgoing expense. His hoard in the Colombo 
bank was steadily swelling. But at the same time 
he was resolved not to yield to these entreaties and 
allow her to go to Colombo. She would come back 
more discontented than ever. And he couldn’t let 
her go there alone. She was far too frank and 
friendly in her attitude toward strangers. He had 
noticed it with Keane and with Hartley Brett, and 
with this young fool, Garth Bennet, confound him! 
And if she stayed at the hotel with only her little 
girl and Rebecca, she would certainly be noticed, 
people would ask who she was, they would inevitably 
try to scrape up acquaintance with her. She w r asn’t 
a person that could easily be overlooked. All men 
admired her, and he himself could see that she 
might be thought beautiful, w 7 ith that aspect of hers 
at once so girlish and so queenly. 

“You can’t possibly stay at hotels by yourself!” 

“My dear Matthew, what do you suppose I did 
all that year I was alone in Italy?” 

“Well, I don’t think you’d better make a boast 
of that,” said Hudson, darkly. 

She flushed. He never missed an opportunity of 
wounding her, of showing her how little, she was to 
be trusted. But she drew herself up quickly and 
said: 

“As a matter of fact I’m not going to a hotel. 
I’m going to stay with Mrs. Monk—the one I met 
on board ship coming out. I don’t know her well, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


355 

but she was kind when Hilary was ill, and some¬ 
times she has written to me and suggested my going 
there.” 

“Monk? I don’t know the name!” 

“Her husband’s in a shipping firm—they have a 
bungalow near the sea.” 

“But she may not be there. And if she is there 
she may not want you. People often give those gen¬ 
eral invitations, but they never mean them to be 
followed up.” 

“I heard from her last week. She said again 
she wished I would go. Her husband’s away at 
Trinco, and she’s alone.” 

“Then why didn’t you want to go last week?” 
inquired Matthew. 

Viola was silent. It is true that last week she had 
not wished so passionately to leave Kellioya. The 
letter had come just after her meeting with Bennet 
that rainy evening by the river, when she was be¬ 
ginning to realize what a difference his friendship 
made to her lonely life, how precious it was. And 
it had just put forth a new little shoot. After 
months of separation they had seen each other 
again. But she had not then anticipated that their 
friendship would come to such an abrupt, tragic con¬ 
clusion, would be so speedily wrecked, as friend¬ 
ships between men and women so often are, on the 
wild breakers of love. If only he had not fallen 
in love with her, asked her to marry him, shown 
her such a tempting picture of domestic peace at 
Madura, and thus elicited that little shameful con¬ 
fession from her! . . . And he had taken it very 
badly. She could see in his face the sudden re¬ 
vulsion of feeling which he had not been able to re¬ 
press. She knew that she had fallen in his estima¬ 
tion from a great height. The affair was finished, 
but it had wounded her deeply. She was still sore 


VIOLA HUDSON 


356 

and smarting from his words of dismay and incre- 
dulity and bitterness. 

“I didn’t feel as if I wanted to go until now,” 
she told Matthew. 

“Let’s hear what’s changed your mind!” He 
leaned back and looked at her with that queer ex¬ 
pression, at once ferocious and suspicious, in his 
small furtive eyes, set so deeply beneath the shaggy 
prominent eyebrows. 

Viola did not answer. She was eating an orange 
and appeared to be absorbed in the task of peel¬ 
ing it. 

“Has it got anything to do with Bennet?” de¬ 
manded Matthew. “I insist upon knowing! I shall 
ask him what he’s about soon!” His eyes almost 
vanished now under the penthouse brows. 

Viola was still silent. 

“You can’t deceive me,” he continued, raising his 
voice a little. “You’ve been seen walking with him 
after dark—more than once. People have recog¬ 
nized you and told me.” He flung the words at her 
with a kind of triumph. 

“I’d no idea you were having me watched!” she 
said. 

“I don’t trust either you or Bennet—I could see 
what he was after from the first moment he set 
eyes on you. Can you deny that you’ve met him 
more than once by the river—that he’s walked back 
with you under cover of darkness? You have en¬ 
couraged his attentions. I’m not going to have it, 
Viola. If I catch him I shall thrash him soundly. 
I’ll soon teach him which is the better man.” 

“You are quite unbearable, Matthew,” she said, 
coolly. “And I’m going to Colombo as soon as 
possible—I want to get away from your brutality 
for a little while. And if you don’t want us back 
you can say so. I’m of age now, and if I’m hard 


VIOLA HUDSON 


357 

up I can sell some of my capital. We shan’t 
starve. . . .” 

She rose from the table and went out of the room. 
She was beginning to realize that this was the only 
threat that had any weight with Matthew. He 
didn’t want her to go away. He liked her money 
too well. She could always bring him to his senses 
by saying that she would leave Kellioya for good. 
He might hate her and Hilary, but he preferred to 
keep them there, his slaves and prisoners. 

She dreaded a meeting between the two men. 
Bennet had a passionate temper, kept nevertheless 
well under control; he would be little likely to 
endure any insult from Matthew with forbearance. 
Then she reflected with sudden bitterness that Garth 
would be less likely than ever to approach the 
bungalow now. He might even see reason in 
Matthew’s close jealous custody of his sister. She 
felt that Garth would no longer be so completely 
on her side. Even if he pitied her, he would still 
be able to perceive justice in Matthew’s methods. 
The thought stung her. She had been a fool to 
speak—it would have been so easy to refuse him 
without going into any particulars. . . . 

No, it wouldn’t have been easy. If only after 
that confession he had still cared, still believed in 
her, she would to-night be the happiest woman in 
the world, knowing that soon she would be his 
wife. . . . 

Herself and Garth; Hilary and Kenneth. The 
free sweet life at Madura. . . . Yes, she had 
wanted it for herself and Hilary. And then the 
sudden change in his voice and manner when he 
had learned the truth! ... It had taught her the 
measure of his abrupt disillusionment. . . . 

“Rebecca,” she called, softly for fear of waking 
Hilary. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


358 

“I’m going to Colombo on Tuesday. You and 
Hilary are to come, too.” 

Rebecca’s thin grim face softened a little. Nearly 
two years of unmitigated Kellioya had secretly tried 
even her fidelity to breaking point. 

“We shall be there a fortnight or three weeks. 
It’ll be nice there now—it’s just the time people go 
back.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“We shall stay with Mrs. Monk—she has a beau¬ 
tiful bungalow near the sea. Oh, Rebecca, won’t 
it be lovely to be able to go to Mass any day we 

like?” 

“It will indeed, ma’am.” 

“We shall only want very thin things. Take all 
Baby’s frocks, Rebecca.” 

“Very well, ma’am.” 

Viola related the little history of that evening’s 
happenings to Father O’Farrell in the confessional, 
and he advised her strongly to leave Kellioya for a 
few weeks. It would be better for both Garth and 
herself that she should go away for a time. The 
change too would be beneficial; she had lived too 
long away from daily Mass and all the help and 
consolation that the Sacraments of the Church can 
bestow. 

She went to Mass on the two succeeding days 
with Rebecca, and, despite the preparations for the 
journey, she contrived also to spend an hour or two 
daily before the lonely Tabernacle in the little 
chapel, choosing always that time when the priest 
was least likely to be there, so that the Blessed 
Sacrament might not be left in complete solitude. 

She arranged to start early on the Tuesday morn¬ 
ing, so as to avoid the great heat of the day. The 
journey through the jungle was to be accomplished 
in carrying-chairs, a method of transit which she 


VIOLA HUDSON 


359 

disliked very much, as it always gave her a sensa¬ 
tion of nausea with its slow and swaying movement. 
But Matthew was still so much opposed to her go¬ 
ing that she did not venture to ask for the loan of 
his pony. A carriage had been ordered to meet the 
little party at the road, just above the Hilgalla 
Rocks—a group of fine gray cliffs with green turfed 
summits that made such a famous landmark for 
many miles round, beyond the hills of Kellioya. 

Hudson was aware of these preparations, but he 
offered no help; he was resolved not to encourage 
his sister in this costly whim of hers. He was still 
obsessed with the notion that she was going to 
Colombo to meet someone. And who could that 
person be but Garth Bennet? 

That evening, after her departure, he was walk¬ 
ing down by the river when he met Mr. Keane and 
Garth Bennet. As it was impossible to avoid them, 
he greeted them with a kind of morose civility. 

“I hear Mrs. Mansfield’s gone to Colombo,” said 
Keane, in his pleasant cheery voice. “I’ve thought 
for some time past that she’s needed a change.” 

Matthew’s brow lowered. “If she’s ever wanted 
a change before she’s never said so,” he answered. 
“It’s just a sudden whim.” He stared almost inso¬ 
lently at Garth as if he suspected him of having 
inspired Viola with this wish to go to Colombo. 
Probably he meant to follow her thither at the ear¬ 
liest possible opportunity. 

“Oh, you can’t keep women away from shops 

forever,” said Keane. 

“Oh—shops— 1 ” said Hudson, contemptuously. 
The idea was nevertheless excessively distasteful to 
him, and he inwardly hoped that Viola would not 
spend too much of her time and substance in the 
famous stores of Colombo, nor even in the I ettan 
with its fascinating bazaars and seductive native 

wares. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


360 

“Is she staying at the G.O.H. ?” inquired Keane, 
using the abbreviation by which the Grand Oriental 
Hotel is known all over Ceylon—a country where a 
curious custom of alluding to both men and places 
by their initials rather than by their names, prevails. 

“No—I should never have allowed her to do 
that. She is staying with a friend of hers, a Mrs. 
Monk.” 

“Oh, a very charming woman,” said Keane, “Fve 
known her for many years. They have a delightful 
bungalow near the sea at Kollupitiya.” 

“I lunched with her once when I was in Colombo,” 
said Garth, speaking for the first time. 

“I don’t know her,” said Matthew. “I’ve never 
wasted my time in rushing off to Colombo—detest¬ 
able place! You might as well live in a Turkish 
bath.” 

Keane laughed. “Ah, but we haven’t all got your 
misanthropic tastes, Hudson,” he said, rallyingly. 

Matthew had never learned to take “chaff.” He 
said “Good-evening” abruptly, and turned away. 
Mentally he resolved to put a watcher down by Hil- 
galla Rocks on the morrow to see if Garth left the 
district. It was unlikely he would go by any other 
route, for if he did he would have to ride down to 
Kandy and take the train from there. It was much 
farther off than Nuwara Eliya. . . . 

“Surly brute,” said Bennet, carelessly, as the two 
men walked on in the direction of Madura. 

“Yes. I wonder what’s upset him now?” said 
Keane. He had not been unaware of the hostile 
glances which Matthew during their brief interview 
had bestowed upon Bennet. 

“If I were Mrs. Mansfield I should go away and 
never come back,” said Bennet, striking at a tea- 
bush and knocking off a slender emerald tip. 

“I should miss her though I so seldom see her,” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


361 

said Keane. “She is a charming woman, and I like 
that little girl of hers with the queer green eyes.” 

Garth was silent. He was beginning to wish that 
Viola would solve the cruel and complicated little 
problem by leaving Kellioya and never coming back. 
In time he would surely be able to forget her, her 
voice, her rippling laugh, all the gay and sad sweet¬ 
ness of her. 

Mrs. Mansfield. . . . He wondered if that could 
really be her name. Probably it was nothing of the 
kind, she had no right to any name but that of 
Hudson, and would be unlikely to adopt that of 
Hilary’s father, whose identity she so obstinately 
declined to divulge. Perhaps he was some well- 
known man who had bribed her to keep silence on 
the point. Garth writhed at the thought. 


CHAPTER XIII 

V IOLA had been in Colombo for some days. 

She found Mrs. Monk’s bungalow everything 
that her fancy had pictured. It stood quite close to 
the sea, well back from the busy Kollupitiya Road, 
which forms part of the great thoroughfare that 
goes from Colombo to Mount Lavinia. The rail¬ 
way line ran between her garden and the sandy 
shore, that was washed ever by the tideless Indian 
Ocean. The garden was a pleasant shady place, full 
of flowers, crotons and ferns. Bushes of flaming 
oleanders, scarlet hibiscus, and golden allamandas 
blossomed there under the shade of a grove of co- 
coanut palms that lifted their graceful fronds to 
the dazzling blue of the sky. Two or three lettuce- 
trees of as pale and brilliant a green as the vegetable 
from which they derive their name, stood at the end 
of the garden near the road, where a thick hedge of 
hibiscus showed its scarlet decorative flowers. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


362 

Unlike most Colombo bungalows the house was 
built on two stories, and all the bedrooms were up¬ 
stairs, which rendered them far cooler and more 
airy. The walls were of white stucco, and a mass 
of flaming crimson bougainvillea flung itself over 
the roof. Deep verandas ran all round the house, 
and the windows of the ground-floor rooms were im¬ 
mense and reached to the floor. Wooden shutters 
painted a dark green protected them during the hot 
hours of the day. There was a certain dampness 
in the air due to the sea-wind, and the place was far 
less infested by mosquitoes than most Colombo habi¬ 
tations. 

Mrs. Monk was a charming woman of about fifty- 
seven; she was pale and emaciated from her long 
residence in the tropics, but she loved Ceylon and 
was perfectly happy there, and like so many English 
people contemplated spending her old age in the 
island. A few visits home had taught her that life 
in Ceylon was simpler and easier in many ways than 
life in England. The abundance of servants, the 
cheaper food, the charm of a winterless climate with 
no long crusade against cold, darkness and dirt, 
compensated to a considerable degree for the exile 
which now after so many years of gradual detach¬ 
ment was really hardly exile at all. Of late years 
her husband had bought a small tea-estate in the 
hills, and during the hot weather they always spent 
several months there. 

Viola felt the age-old attraction of the East tak¬ 
ing possession of her. The wonderful tropical vege¬ 
tation, the flowers, often so heavily scented, the 
strange fruits, that blue sea coming up to the green¬ 
est of lands, held a charm to which she readily suc¬ 
cumbed. And after the silences of Kellioya she felt 
once more life stirring about her. The brilliant na¬ 
tive crowds that thronged the red roads of Colombo 
interested her. There were white-clad Sinhalese, 


VIOLA HUDSON 363 

the men wearing their glossy black hair fastened in 
feminine fashion in a knot at the nape of the neck, 
and kept back from their forehead by a semicircular 
comb such as children used to wear, the women 
dressed in colored skirts and little white jackets of 
Eton shape. The Tamil women with immense silver 
earrings and nose-ornaments were more gracefully 
dressed in scanty fluttering draperies of striking 
pink or yellow design. There were turbaned Tamils 
dragging rickshaws and doing most of the active 
work in house and garden and stables; tall men from 
the Persian Gulf; warrior-like looking Afghans; 
Mohammedans or Moormen in white garments 
with the tarbush on their heads. There were Eu¬ 
rasians too, “burghers” as they are called in Cey¬ 
lon, half-castes descended from old Dutch or Portu¬ 
guese families, many of them bearing ancient names 
of those races. The women were often elaborately 
dressed in the latest European fashions, and though 
generally dark-haired and dark-eyed their skins 
were sometimes hardly less pale than those of the 
English colony. English people indeed often looked 
more pallid and delicate than they really were, in 
contrast to the dark glowing faces around them. 
Viola felt that she could never grow tired of watch¬ 
ing the scene, which held so much of the vivid color, 
the glamor and mystery of the East. Mystery that 
seemed to be hidden behind those inscrutable eyes, 
those unsmiling dark faces . . . But the beauty of 
the decor with all its kaleidoscopic effects enchanted 
her. 

There was a convent not very far from where 
Mrs. Monk lived, and she obtained permission from 
the nuns to go there to Mass daily. The Catholic 
Cathedral was in Mutwal, quite at the other end of 
Colombo, and there was no church very near her, 
so she was glad to make use of the nuns chapel. 

Matthew, as he had said, was not in the habit of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


36 4 

coming to Colombo except on those very rare occa¬ 
sions when he had business to transact. He had no 
friends there, and the only men with whom he was 
acquainted were members of firms or banks, and a 
few subordinate government officials. He was 
known only by name to the colony, and he had 
justly earned the reputation of being a miserly, mis¬ 
anthropic, morose man who seldom left his own 
fastness at Kellioya. It was therefore a surprise 
to most people to find that he possessed such a 
young, attractive and beautiful sister. She looked 
almost like a girl, they declared in private to Mrs. 
Monk, who was enchanted at having the opportunity 
of exhibiting her lovely protegee. Too young really 
to be the mother of a little girl of two and a half 
years. . . . Her husband? “Oh, she’s separated. 
A very unfortunate affair . . . they don’t like it to 
be mentioned.” Mrs. Monk was ready with a glib 
explanation for the curiously-minded. She would 
sometimes add: “She was an orphan and very young, 
hardly out of the school-room when it happened.” 
But she was in absolute ignorance of the true facts. 
Viola was obstinately silent and reticent about her 
past, and no one dared show the slightest curiosity 
on the subject in her presence. 

She came down one morning to find Mrs. Monk 
sitting in the veranda while a Tambi, or native 
peddler, was unfastening his huge pack preparatory 
to a gratuitous exhibition of his wares. Viola took 
a seat near her to watch the process, with which she 
was still unfamiliar. The glittering things, the 
brass and silverware, the silks, embroideries, table¬ 
cloths, and sandal-wood boxes with a few probably 
quite worthless gems, made an extremely attractive 
display. 

“Do you want to buy anything, Viola?” asked 
Mrs. Monk, picking up a length of flame-colored 
silk. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


365 

“Oh, I want everything,” said Viola, laughing, 
“but I can’t spend much.” She examined a sandal¬ 
wood box, quaintly carved. 

“I’ll give you two rupees for that box,” said Mrs. 
Monk, in a tone of great decision. 

The T. ambi showed all his teeth in a deprecating 
smile. 

“Two rupees?—Too much asking, lady,” he said. 

“It isn’t worth more, and I won’t give you an¬ 
other cent 1” 

“Too much asking, lady. Three rupees.” 

“Three rupees! When I can get a better one in 
the Pettah for one fifty!” 

“Pettah not having lovely box like that, lady,” 
remonstrated the Tambi. 

Viola could hear him murmuring to himself in 
dreamy fashion, “Too much asking.” 

She picked up a little box containing gems of vary¬ 
ing hues. 

“How much are these moonstones?” she asked. 

The Tambi, concluding from her fresh com¬ 
plexion and fashionable attire that she had but 
lately arrived from England, answered rapidly: 

“Two rupees each, lady.” 

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Monk, “they’re not worth 
one.” 

“Lady taking box,” murmured the Tambi. 

“Yes, but I’ve changed my mind about it. I’ll 
give you one fifty for it—it isn’t worth more.” 

“One fifty!” he exclaimed, in a tone of despair. 

“I think I’ll get some of that blue silk to make 
a frock for Hilary,” said Viola. 

“It’s very thin—don’t give him more than a rupee 
a yard for it,” advised Mrs. Monk. 

“I’ll take three yards,” said Viola, holding it up. 
“One rupee a yard.” 

“Lady, lucky lady. Lady can have,” said the 
Tambi, unexpectedly. He held out a tiny sandal- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


366 

wood box into which he dropped a moonstone. “I 
making lady present—lady, lucky lady.” He meas¬ 
ured the silk and cut off the length required. 

Viola looked questioningly at Mrs. Monk, who 
whispered, “By all means take the present. They 
often give something if they think you look lucky, 
especially if they haven’t sold anything that day.” 

Viola smiled at the man, accepted the box and 
said, “Thank you very much.” 

After considerable bargaining Mrs. Monk pur¬ 
chased a small brass tray, very elaborately beaten. 
“It really is native work,” she said, “so many of 
these things are made in Birmingham and im¬ 
ported.” 

The Tambi proceeded to fold up his goods and 
pack them into the immense basket, which, despite 
its great weight when filled, he carried on his head. 
When he had gone Mrs. Monk announced that they 
Were invited to tiffin at a bungalow on Slave Island. 

“I want you to see it,” she said, “there’s such a 
pretty garden going down to the lake. And the 
flamboyant trees are in flower.” 

“You know I’m not accustomed to such a whirl 
of gayety,” said Viola, half in remonstrance. Since 
coming to Colombo her dread of meeting someone 
she knew and of being recognized, had come back 
to her with its old violence. 

“It’s very good for you, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Monk, kindly, “and I’m sure you’ll like the Blairs. 
He’s a very promising young Civil servant.” 

“Still, I’d ever so much rather stay here with 
you,” said Viola. 

“And then this evening there’ll be polo on Galle 
Face—I should like you to see that.” 

Viola smiled. “It’s really too bad of you!” 

“My dear, you’ve been boxed up at Kellioya far 
too long!” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


367 

Little Mrs. Blair was about Viola’s own age, and 
had a small boy rather younger than Hilary. Viola 
could not help contrasting this woman’s happy lot 
with her own. Wilfrid Blair was obviously very 
much in love with his wife, and they had a charm¬ 
ing home. On the stretch of grass that went down 
to the edge of the lake there stood a group of very 
fine flamboyant trees, stripped now of all their 
leaves and with their branches completely covered 
with scarlet blossoms, pendant drops shaped rather 
like those of an acacia. They made a wonderful 
blot of pure and brilliant color against the blue of 
lake and sky. 

Suddenly Mrs. Blair said: “When Garth Bennet 
was staying with us he insisted upon rowing on the 
lake every evening. It’s lucky we had a boat.” 

“Surely he lives near you up-country, Mrs. Mans¬ 
field?” said Blair. “I remember his saying Madura 
wasn’t very far from Kellioya. He’s been trying 
to persuade us to go up there on a long visit.” 

“Yes, he’s a neighbor of ours,” said Viola. 

“I’ve been told he’s made his bungalow perfectly 
lovely,” said Mrs. Blair, “it seems he has wonder¬ 
ful taste. What do you think of it, Mrs. Mans¬ 
field?” 

“I?” Viola colored faintly. “Why, I’ve never 
seen it.” 

“Never seen it?” echoed Mrs. Blair, in astonish¬ 
ment, “but I thought you were neighbors!” 

“So we are,” answered Viola, “but Madura is 
some miles from Kellioya, and my brother never 
entertains at all, so we don’t see anything of our 
neighbors . . . unless it’s quite by chance,” she 
added, remembering those brief accidental meetings 
with Garth down by the river. 

“Well, he’s written to say that he hopes to come 
down quite soon and of course he’ll stay with us. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


368 

You must come and meet him, Mrs. Mansfield,” 
said Blair, kindly. 

Viola said nothing. She even felt a little inward 
indignation that he should choose the present time 
for a visit to Colombo. She had come here to 
escape from him, and it was incredible that he 
should follow her in this way. Matthew would be 
angry when he heard of it; it would confirm his sus¬ 
picions that she had come to Colombo on purpose 
to meet Garth there. 

“I knew his wife,” said Blair, presently. “A 
charming creature—he was simply broken-hearted 
when she died. Sudden thing too. I don’t quite 
understand his spending so much of his time out 
here, though, separating himself really quite un¬ 
necessarily from his son. He’s devoted to the boy, 
and he might just as well have him out.” 

“Our climate is very good for children,” said 
Viola, “my little girl thrives at Kellioya, and then 
she escapes all the usual infantile complaints.” 

“You must bring her to tea one day with our 
small boy,” said Blair. 

“Oh, I shall be delighted. She hardly knows any 
other children. It would be so good for her.” 

The tiffin, with its inevitable accompaniment of 
curry and rice, was now at an end. Mrs. Blair led 
the way into the veranda, and they sat there, drink¬ 
ing coffee, and looking at the charming landscape, 
the lake with its wooded banks, so brilliantly green 
with the tropical vegetation, and the scarlet flam¬ 
boyants in all the pride of their brief blossoming. 

CHAPTER XIV 

O NE evening a few days later, Viola was walk¬ 
ing on Galle Face with Mrs. Monk. They 
had been watching the polo and listening to the 



VIOLA HUDSON 


369 

band, and having left the carriage near the hotel 
were taking a little exercise in the cool of the eve¬ 
ning. Mrs. Monk had hired a bullock-hackery for 
Hilary and Rebecca. It was a light cart with a 
cover, and was drawn by an active brown bullock 
with an immense hump. Many of the Colombo chil¬ 
dren used this simple means of conveyance driven 
by a Tamil, whose loud cries of “Tcha ! Tcha ! M’ck, 
m’ck, pitta, pitta!” delighted Hilary, and even 
amused the grim and silent Rebecca. 

The bullock-hackery had driven off, Hilary had 
waved her little hand in farewell to her mother, who 
now proceeded to walk slowly along by the side of 
Mrs. Monk. 

The famous promenade was crowded with people, 
walking, driving, riding. It was near the hour of 
sunset, and it seemed that all Colombo had emerged 
from bungalows, offices and shops to enjoy the fresh¬ 
ness of the evening air after the great heat of the 
tropical day. 

Before them lay the vast plain of the Indian 
Ocean, silver as a polished shield and faintly 
wrinkled with gray as the light breeze touched it. 
The sun was sinking in a flood of pure gold, and 
presently the sea too reflected those translucent 
daffodil and primrose hues. At one end of the long 
esplanade the great cream-colored buildings of the 
Colombo Fort reared themselves in massive dusky 
silhouette; at the other end the Galle Face Hotel 
was half hidden in a group of shivering cocoanut 
palms. 

A steamer had just left the harbor, and was go¬ 
ing rapidly in a southerly direction. Her smoke left 
a faint purple smudge on the wonderful silver and 
gold of sky and sea. Her white track cut a luminous 
pathway and her lights flashed out like jewels. Just 
as the sun dipped beneath the horizon the phenome¬ 
non familiar to people in the tropics was manifested. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


37 ° 

The last slender crescent of the sun flashed out for 
a second, no longer gold or crimson but colored a 
brilliant green, before it disappeared beneath the 
smooth waste of waters. In Ceylon this is com¬ 
monly called the Emerald, and one must watch 
closely to see that brief flash of pure green light. 

A group of Parsees knelt down on the shore and 
prayed. . . . 

“It will soon be getting dark now—we shall have 
to be turning back,” said Mrs. Monk. 

Viola walked beside her, a tall graceful distin¬ 
guished-looking figure, her beauty conspicuous even 
in that thronging crowd. She was dressed very 
simply in a white embroidered dress and a large 
shady white hat. People turned to look at her, and 
to inquire who she was; a few stopped to speak to 
Mrs. Monk in the hope of obtaining an introduc¬ 
tion. They were just turning homeward when a 
group of young officers wearing the white uniform 
of the tropics approached them. Viola stood a 
little apart; her dread of encountering strangers had 
grown upon her in Colombo, and she had had a 
haunting fear ever since her arrival, of meeting 
Esme. At Kellioya she never had this fear, but 
she knew that men from India often came to Ceylon 
for a few weeks’ sport or to enjoy the bracing air 
of Nuwara Eliya after a season in the Plains, spend¬ 
ing a few days in Colombo on their way. 

She moved on ahead a little. But before she had 
gone many steps she found herself face to face with 
Garth Bennet. It hardly surprised her to see him, 
knowing that he had been expected to stay with the 
Blairs. 

He approached her, quickly, eagerly. 

“Yes—I’ve come, Mrs. Mansfield. I had to 
come. When can I see you alone?” 

He was very pale, and his eyes looked large and 
bright, as if he had not slept for many nights. His 


VIOLA HUDSON 


37i 

mouth was hard and resolutely set, and the whole 
face had a sternness of purpose that she was not 
accustomed to associate with him. 

In the dusk her cold pale face held a curious 
brooding expression, as if he had awakened her 
roughly from a dream. 

“You cannot see me alone.” There was a faint 
reproof in her voice. She was evidently not inclined 
to overlook that unfortunate speech of his on the 
hills of Kellioya. 

“Viola ... I simply must . . .” 

“It is impossible.” She lifted her dark eyes and 
looked at him squarely. “You should have stayed 
at Madura. You shouldn’t have followed me here. 
You drove me away.” 

He fell back a little. “Oh, you should have 
waited. I had to get over the shock—the surprise 
—I know I lost my head at first and said things I 
oughtn’t to have said. You must forgive me. I’ve 
had time to think it over, and I’ve hit on a way out.” 

“A way out?” she repeated. 

“Yes. That’s why I must see you alone—explain 
it to you. You mustn’t refuse . . . Viola, be¬ 
loved.” His voice sank to a whisper. “When may 
I come?” 

“If it’s so very important you can come in the 
morning. Will ten o’clock be too early for you? 
We may be going out later. But I want you to 
understand one thing quite clearly. I am not going 
to marry you.” 

His face fell a little. “Ah, don’t say that until 
you know what I’ve got to tell you. Viola it s 
something that may make all the difference.” His 
face was now almost boyish in its eagerness. I 
was afraid I must have offended you the other day 
when I met you on the estate. And I so wanted 
to see you again. . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


372 

She did not speak, and it seemed to him there 
was a touch of scorn even in her silence. 

“If you only hadn’t gone away like that! . . 
he added. 

“I was glad to go away. You made me regret 
that I had ever told you my secret. You taught 
me just what people would say—just what they 
would think of me if they knew the truth.’’ She 
lifted her face now, and in the deepening blue dusk 
he could see that it was cold, pale, emotionless. 

“I will come at ten,” he said, and the eager hope 
faded a little from his face. “We shall be alone, 
of course?” 

“Of course—if you wish it. And afterward per¬ 
haps you will go back to Madura?” 

“It depends. Blair wants me to stay on a bit, 
and you know I love Colombo. I’ve been playing 
tennis this evening with them at the Garden Club, 
and we often go on the lake after dinner.” 

“I am glad you like it so much,” she answered. 
She gave him her hand. “Good-by.” She moved 
quietly toward Mrs. Monk. 

Garth vanished before Mrs. Monk had time to 
recognize him for she said immediately: 

“Who was that young man, Viola?” 

“Oh, that’s the famous Sir Garth Bennet of 
Madura.” 

“Sir Garth? Oh, I wish I’d spoken to him. I 
know him—he came to tiffin one day, and declared 
I’d given him the best prawn-curry he’d ever eaten! 
I shall ask the Blairs to bring him to dinner one 
night.” 

Mrs. Monk was the soul of hospitality, and al¬ 
ways preferred to sit down to tiffin or dinner with 
a guest or two, to provide her with the harmless 
gossip she loved. Viola had made this discovery 
with something like dismay. 

“Oh, please don’t ask him! At least perhaps 


VIOLA HUDSON 


373 

not while I’m here. . . . He’s coming to see me to¬ 
morrow morning at ten, and after that I hope he’ll 
go back to Madura.” There was a kind of passion¬ 
ate entreaty in her voice. 

Mrs. Monk was tactful and said no more, per¬ 
ceiving that the subject had proved unexpectedly 
agitating. 

“That girl’s a regular bundle of nerves,” she 
thought. 

Of course she was aware of the baffling mystery 
that surrounded her young friend. Once she had 
hoped to penetrate it, but even in the tedious, otiose 
hours of a long sea-voyage she had never caught 
Viola off her guard for a single moment. 

They drove along the soft kabook road. These 
red roads of Colombo are a very characteristic and 
distinctive feature of the place, winding between 
the avenues of brilliant verdure like warm fiery rib¬ 
bons. But they offer in dry weather a baleful red 
dust that permeates shoes and clothing to a highly 
detrimental degree. 

Sumptuous bungalows, each standing in its own 
compound and shaded by a grove of cocoanut palms, 
were to be seen on both sides of the road. Here 
and there too they passed a little group of native 
dwellings, dark mud-built cabins with thatched roofs 
and strings of bananas in all stages of ripening de¬ 
pending from the eaves. Little children played in 
the dust outside, fat naked brown babies with ador¬ 
able black eyes rolled on the ground together with 
the cocks and hens and lean, leggy pariah dogs. 
These little huts were very picturesque in their deli¬ 
cate green setting of shady banana-palms. 

A Tamil coolie ran lightly past dragging a rick¬ 
shaw occupied by a pale-faced European who leaned 
languidly back. In his easy rapidity and agility and 
muscular strength the native looked like some 
bronze statue come to life. He threaded his way 


VIOLA HUDSON 


374 

dexterously through the traffic, dragging the light 
two-wheeled carriage after him. 

“It seems so odd that you should hardly know 
each other when Sir Garth is such a near neighbor,” 
said Mrs. Monk, musingly. 

“If you knew Matthew you wouldn’t think it 
odd,” said Viola. “He never lets me entertain our 
neighbors.” 

“So they have to follow you down to Colombo 
to see you at all!” laughed Mrs. Monk. 

And she thought: “What a pity she isn’t free! 
But of course that young man knows she isn’t— 
everyone knows that. And her being a Catholic 
makes it all the more hopeless.” 

They were just turning in at the gates of the 
bungalow. 

“But I hope you will ask him to stay to tiffin 
to-morrow if you wish to,” she added. 

“Oh, thank you very much, but I don’t expect 
he’ll be able to stay.” Viola’s voice was still 
troubled. 

For of course there was nothing he could say 
to her which could ever make her change her mind. 
And then his coming in this way seemed to put her 
in a false position in the eyes of those who still be¬ 
lieved that she was not free to marry. This thought 
evoked within her a secret indignation. 

She went slowly up to her room. It was at the 
back of the house and looked on to the sea, which 
was barely a hundred yards away. Near in she 
could see the moving light of a fragile catamaran 
sailing past. The coast was rocky, and here and 
there a great white wall of surf indicated the pres¬ 
ence of some hidden peril. The murmur of the 
sea, very soft but rhythmic and sustained, mingled 
with the rustle of the cocoanut palms. From a 
group of native huts nearby there came the sound of 
tom-toms whose dull beat seemed to resemble that 


VIOLA HUDSON 


375 


of some mighty muffled pulse. Sometimes a voice 
flung out a scrap of song, monotonous, melancholy, 
to the night. . . . 

What could Garth possibly have to say to her? 

He was punctual to the moment on the following 
morning. Viola had been out to Mass at an early 
hour, and upon returning had partaken of her early 
tea with Hilary in the veranda. Then the child 
accompanied by Rebecca had gone oil in the bullock- 
hackery to the Cinnamon Gardens. Viola had stood 
at the front door under an archway watching them 
depart. They had hardly gone when Garth made 
his appearance in a hired carriage, which he dis¬ 
missed at the gate. He walked down the garden to 
where Viola was standing. 

The sun was shining on the browns and golds of 
the crotons. A great allamanda tree in full flower 
was offering its slender golden trumpets for the 
feasting of innumerable bees. Mingled with the 
scent of flowers there was a brackish odor borne on 
the sea-wind. 

“It’s heavenly here,” pronounced Garth, u and 
far cooler than Slave Island.” 

“Don’t you get a breeze off the lake?” asked 
Viola. 

“Oh, yes, to a certain extent. But it seems so 
closed in, in comparison with this.” 

“Mrs. Monk tells me that she had to wait for 
years to get this bungalow,” said Viola, glancing up 
at the white walls, decorated with. that splendid 
patch of crimson bougainvillea, flowing across the 
roof. She paused for a moment. “Shall we sit in 
the veranda or go down to the shore?” 

“Oh, the shore, please, if it isn’t too hot for 
you,” he said, eagerly, reflecting that down there 
on those yellow sands there would be much less 
chance of interruption. He did not feel in the mood 


VIOLA HUDSON 


376 

to-day for Mrs. Monk’s gushing hospitality. He 
wanted to see Viola alone, to find out if there was 
no way by which they might come together. 

Seeing her now after more than a week, he de¬ 
cided that he loved her better than ever before. 
And she would be sweet to Kenneth . . . she so 
loved little children. Perhaps in time Kenneth 
would almost take the place of Hilary in her 
heart. . . . 

They crossed the railway-line which runs from 
Colombo to Galle. In the distance they could see 
the promontory of Mount Lavinia thrusting its 
palm-fringed arm into the sea, forming a little bay 
whereon the catamarans guided by a single bronze 
figure rode so lightly. 

They sat down side by side on the sand, with the 
waves washing close to their feet. Before them the 
Indian Ocean was colored like a clear sapphire 
under the burning blue of that tropical sky. All 
along the shore the groves of cocoanut palms made 
a deep fringe of lustrous green with never a straight 
stem among them all. 

u Do you like Colombo?” he asked. Her silence 
embarrassed him and forced him to utter the banal 
question. 

“Yes—I’ve enjoyed my visit, but I shouldn’t like 
to live here—the climate wouldn’t do for Hilary at 
all. Already she’s lost some of her color. And the 
English children in Colombo look so white and 
thin.” 

“Do you always think first of Hilary?” he asked. 

“Always.” 

“But if you were to form fresh ties she might 
not be quite so important,” he said. 

When she spoke of Hilary in that way, he found 
it more and more difficult to tell her of his plans 
for the future. 

Garth held a not uncommon theory that no 


VIOLA HUDSON 


377 

woman could care very much for her illegitimate 
child. She must ever regard it as a source of shame, 
of reproach. And that sense of shame must surely 
mingle with her love to its hurt. But somehow he 
felt that he couldn’t judge Viola as he would judge 
another woman. She was different, and she held 
different ideals and standards. He said abruptly: 

“I’ve been thinking it all over, Viola, ever since 
that evening when you told me about yourself at 
Kellioya. Of course I do see that you were most 
cruelly duped. And I love you—I want you to be 
my wife. I’m ready to make all the promises your 
Church requires, but in return I should have to make 
one condition. . . 

As he spoke his eyes rested upon her face. 

“A condition?” 

His words had sent a little thrill of joy into 
her heart. For Hilary’s sake she felt that it would 
be well for her to marry him. And though Garth’s 
love had never touched the deeper places of her 
heart she knew that this marriage would give her 
a restored happiness, a peace of mind such as per¬ 
haps she had never known. And she felt too that 
his love for her must be very true, very deep, to 
triumph in this way over the tremendous obstacle 
that had at first threatened to separate them. 

And then Garth spoke, in slow deliberate tones, 
shattering the very fabric of her dream. 

“My condition is that you’d have to give up 
Hilary. I mean I couldn’t have her to live with us. 
It wouldn’t be fair to Kenneth, and then it would 
lead to too many questions. I should like to 
keep your story a secret, just as you’ve always 
kept it. The presence of a child would stimulate 
curiosity. ...” 

Viola listened, and as she listened all the bright 
picture of that suggested home at Madura shivered 
and vanished, this time, as she clearly saw, forever. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


378 

“You’re asking me to give up Hilary?” she said. 

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll see it’s the only thing 
to be done.” 

She was no longer quite so pale; there were little 
pink patches in her cheeks, and her eyes held a light 
that spelt danger. She was astonished as well as 
indignant that he should have considered her capable 
of so lightly renouncing her child. 

“To give her up for you?” she said. 

Her tone was cutting. Garth winced. 

“But I’d give up everything in the world for 
you,” he said, gently. “Everything and every¬ 
one. . . .” 

“Not your son,” said Viola, breathing hard. 

“Well, you may be right. Perhaps not my son.” 
He acknowledged this reluctantly. “But you know 
I’ve wondered—ever since you told me about her— 
that you should have cared to have her with you all 
this time. Most women in your position would 
have hidden her out of sight from the first. People 
need never have known then that you’d got a child at 
ail.” 

“Hilary is as dear and precious to me as your 
son is to you. And I can’t believe that any woman 
could be such a monster as you suggest—to abandon 
a child, a little girl, she had brought into the world I” 

She sprang up. Garth rose too. He put his 
hand on her thin sleeve trying to detain her. “Oh, 
don’t go yet, Viola! Let’s talk it over temperately. 
You must see how impossible it would be for my 
wife to keep her own illegitimate child with her. 
I must think of Kenneth too—of any children that 
might afterward be born . . .” 

She stood there facing him, against that blue 
background of sea and sky;—she was framed in 
blue, he thought, like some pale Della Robbia 
Madonna. 

“Do you suppose,” she said in a low angry tone, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3 79 

“that I made those tremendous sacrifices for Hilary 
three years ago—when I might have married her 
father—only to abandon her now while she’s still 
such a baby and needs me so much? You can know 
me very little if you think I’m capable of such a 
thing as that I Don’t speak of it again—don’t try 
to see me again! I’m sorry that I ever told 
you . . . anything . . . anything ^t all.” There 
was a trembling in her voice that seemed to indicate 
she was not far from tears. 

“Well, you’ll run no risk of seeing me for the 
present,” said Garth; “I had a cable last night 
which necessitates my going home in a few days.” 

“I hope it wasn’t any bad news?” she said, re¬ 
lenting. 

“No—not in the sense you mean. But a cousin 
of mine has died—a distant cousin whom I didn’t 
know at all well, and he’s left me a little money—I 
can’t think w T hy—and I must run home to see 
about it.” 

“I am glad,” she said, with recovered serenity, 
“that it was no one you cared for very much.” 

“No—poor old Esme—we were at school to¬ 
gether but we never got on. He’s always been a 
bit of a rotter. It’ll be a heavy blow, though, for 
his poor old father, for he was an only son.” 

Viola’s face had suddenly grown stone-like. 
“Esme?” she repeated. 

“Yes, Esme Craye, old Lord Bethnell’s son. He 
died quite suddenly while on leave from India. He 
had had a good many attacks of malaria and I sup¬ 
pose they’d weakened his heart. Why, what’s the 
matter, Mrs. Mansfield? Are you feeling faint?” 
He sprang toward her, and gripped her by the arm. 
She swayed and almost fell. The whole bright blue 
world was spinning about her in glittering gyrations 
of crystal light that blinded and dazzled her. One 
fact stood out amid all her confusion. Esme was 


VIOLA HUDSON 


380 

dead. The man who had wronged her so deeply, 
the man she had loved and trusted. Hilary’s father 
whom now she would never see on earth. . . . 

Her face was livid; Garth, thinking she was go¬ 
ing to faint, seized her in his strong arms. Almost 
carrying her he climbed the steps that enabled 
people to scale the iron barriers that divided the 
railway-line from the shore. 

In the garden he led her to a seat beneath some 
spreading banana-palms. “Shall I fetch you some¬ 
thing? Would you like anything?” he asked. 

He was conscious then of something sinister in 
this sudden attack of hers. What did it mean? 
Had she ever known Esme ? 

“No—no—I shall be all right in a moment.” 

She leaned forward a little and hid her face in 
her hands. She was aware perhaps of his close 
puzzled scrutiny. 

Presently a sound of wheels was heard. It was 
the hackery, returning with Hilary and Rebecca. 
The child, catching sight of her mother under the 
trees, rushed toward her with a little shout of joy. 
Viola with an effort took her in her arms. The 
sense of dizziness, of faintness, had passed. But 
the words still echoed dully, rhythmically, in her 
brain like the beats of a hammer. “Esme is dead, 
Esme is dead . . .” Twenty-seven—it was young 
to die, young to leave the beautiful bright world he 
had so loved. . . . She had almost forgotten the 
presence of Garth Bennet. 

With folded arms he stood watching her. And 
as he watched, his attention was suddenly arrested 
by the charming upturned face of little Hilary. 
Her eyes . . . yes, he knew now where he had 
seen those eyes before. Esme had had them; old 
Lady Bethnell had them. So that was the reason 
of Viola’s faintness and emotion. He had strongly 
suspected that something had lain behind it. A dull 


VIOLA HUDSON 


3«i 

flush reddened his cheeks. He almost hated Hilary 
then. But for her he would have married this wo¬ 
man whom he loved with such strange passion. 
Hilary made it more than ever impossible. . . . 

“So it was Esme,” he said, in a hard voice. “I 
always knew he was a rotter but I never knew 
he was such a scoundrel as thatl” 

Viola did not answer, but it seemed to him that 
she clasped little Hilary more closely to her, 
smoothing back the fair golden curls with her hand. 

He wondered he had never before noticed the 
extraordinary resemblance the child bore to Esme 
Craye. 

“Was it Esme?” he repeated. His voice held 
an ugly little sound. 

Viola looked at him with her clear frank gaze. 

“Yes,” she said, “it was Esme. This will show 
you perhaps how impossible it is for me to marry 
you. I will only ask you one thing—to respect my 
secret as far as you are able.” 

She gave him her hand, and then went toward 
the house, leading Hilary. There was something 
final about the manner of her going, almost as if 
she had shut a door in his face. But she was right. 
Marriage between them was out of the question. 
This new knowledge had raised the dividing barrier 

a little higher. 

Esme and Viola. ... 

His love, a tortured, maimed thing, writhed at 
the insupportable thought. He wondered that she 
was ever able to bear to look at her baby’s face with 
its tell-tale likeness to Esme Craye. ... 

CHAPTER XV 

V IOLA hurried upstairs with Hilary. One 
thing only filled her mind, and that was the 
news of Esme’s death. In a sense it was a relief 
to her, but she could still feel sorrow at the thought 


VIOLA HUDSON 


382 

of his mother’s grief. The child of so many and 
such high hopes, he had wasted his life, proving 
from every point of view faithless and untrust¬ 
worthy. He had never married, and she wondered 
now if he had ever made any efforts to discover 
her whereabouts and find the child of whose birth 
he could never have had any precise tidings. 

Perhaps at any other moment she might have 
felt regret at Garth’s departure, which now more 
than ever must surely prove final. It had been a 
rapid destruction of a flattering dream wherein she 
had seen her good name restored, her place in the 
world established on safe and pleasant lines, her 
emancipation secured from the narrow and tyranni¬ 
cal rule of her brother. 

Her tears flowed now, and she strained Hilary 
to her heart, assuring herself that never, never 
could she have entertained the thought of separating 
herself from her child. Her one means of repara¬ 
tion lay through Hilary. It would never have been 
possible for her to thrust Hilary out of sight as 
Garth had suggested, like something of which she 
was ashamed. 

Hilary put up her little chubby hand and said, 
“Don’t kwy, mummy,’’ in a distressed tone. Chil¬ 
dren are always astonished to see their elders in 
tears, which are generally associated in their minds 
with some form of naughtiness from which they in¬ 
variably imagine grown-ups to be happily exempt. 

It was thus that Rebecca found them when she 
returned from the kitchen regions with some milk 
for Hilary. 

“Sir Garth has gone, ma’am?” she inquired. 

Gossip had reached her ears at Kellioya, and she 
had been aware of his visit that morning. It had 
suggested possibilities of change, nevertheless she 
had not been without anxiety for the future, espe¬ 
cially where Hilary was concerned. When a woman 
married again she was apt to neglect the child of a 


VIOLA HUDSON 383 

former marriage. Rebecca loved Hilary; she was 
jealous for her. It was for this reason that she had 
secretly looked askance upon Sir Garth’s courtship. 

“Yes,” said Viola. She lifted her face. Even 
those tempestuous tears could not mar its young 
pensive loveliness. “He—he isn’t coming back,” 
she added, with a sudden longing to confide the 
truth in someone. She seemed to have shed some 
of her years, and was speaking to Rebecca as if she 
were still her nurse who had a right to exact con¬ 
fessions from her. 

“I’m very glad indeed to hear that, ma’am,” said 
Rebecca. 

Viola longed to ask her why she was glad. She 
thought the faithful creature, who never grumbled 
or complained, would have welcomed the thought 
of perhaps leaving Kellioya and having a comfort¬ 
able and permanent home in England. Servants, 
Viola reflected, often recognized the existence of a 
love-affair before those chiefly concerned had en¬ 
visaged their own condition. It was only astonish¬ 
ing that she should have watched and then disap¬ 
proved. 

“He wasn’t ever one to take to Baby,” pursued 
Rebecca. “You might have had to choose between 
them, ma’am.” 

Viola looked at her, slightly bewildered at her 
perspicacity, so much keener apparently than her 
own. 

“Well, if you want to know, Rebecca dear,” said 
Viola, impulsively, “I have chosen.” 

She strained Hilary to her, kissing the little face, 
the fair crisp shining hair. When she looked up she 
added, smiling: 

“When one’s a mother there isn’t really any 
choice!” 

“That’s what I should always have thought, 
ma’am,” sa N id Rebecca, relieved. 


I 


3 3 4 VIOLA HUDSON 

“Only, it would have been nice to have one’s own 
home again, and feel perfectly settled,” said Viola, 
with a sigh. But a home where there was no 
Hilary—the prospect was unimaginable! It hurt 
her to think that Garth should have believed her 
capable of deserting her own child. Across his sur¬ 
face sympathy she saw plainly that fundamentally 
he hadn’t either known or understood her at all. 

Rebecca was silent. She had a low opinion of 
men, though what this was based upon it was im¬ 
possible to conjecture. She was convinced, how¬ 
ever, that before matrimony they were wont to 
make specious promises which they never had any 
intention of fulfilling. Not but what she’d liked 
the look of Sir Garth, and had considered him in 
many ways a suitable match for her lady. He was 
a million times better than that other one with the 
green eyes and the mocking smile. If Viola had 
been a young girl, with no Hilary to consider, Sir 
Garth would have done very well indeed. But any 
change that even remotely jeopardized Hilary’s 
position in the cosmos, was certainly not to be en¬ 
couraged. It was thus that Rebecca secretly en¬ 
visaged a situation which for some time past had 
perturbed her mind. 

Viola had a curious longing to return precipitately 
to Kellioya. With all its limitations and disadvan¬ 
tages it was the one place where she had found 
peace. Her principal motive for this visit to 
Colombo had been completely frustrated by Garth’s 
appearance upon the scene. And then to crown all, 
as if by some ironic device of Fate’s, it was he who 
had brought her the news of Esme’s death, wresting 
her secret from her in that moment of sudden 
emotion. 

Viola was shaken by the events of the morning. 
Until that final interview she had made up her mind 


VIOLA HUDSON 


385 

to marry Garth Bennet should he renew his offer 
to make her his wife. He was a man whom she 
could trust and who, she felt, would always love 
her. On her side she liked him very much, and 
was certain that she could soon learn to love him. 
Marriage would have meant escape from Kellioya, 
and perhaps this was one of its principal attractions 
for Viola, who had suffered considerably under her 
brother’s cruel and suspicious bearing toward her. 
And in a sense Esme’s death gave her a feeling of 
freedom. She could go through the world now 
without that perpetual fear of meeting him sud¬ 
denly face to face, like a ghost from the past. 

But now the chapter was closed, and Viola began 
to feel that soon she would be able to look back 
upon the episode without substantial regret. She 
had never regretted her former sacrifice for Hilary 
and she did not intend to regret this one. She was 
grateful to Garth because he had forced her to real¬ 
ize the measure—if such a thing were measurable— 
of her love for Hilary. Not for all the love and 
wealth and position in the world would she relin¬ 
quish her child to strangers. Her first duty, her 
only duty, was to train her to be a good Catholic, 
to surround her with all the love and care and happi¬ 
ness that had been lacking to her own childhood. 
Even if she had been a less passionately maternal 
woman she felt that she must have come to the same 
decision, because a mother’s life was so closely bound 
up in that of her child, that a rupture must mean 
the cruellest anguish to both. 

“Eve ruined my own life, but I won’t ruin 
Hilary’s,” she thought. 

And then her heart sank, for had not little 
Hilary’s life been in some sense always ruined from 
the very moment of her birth? She was illegiti¬ 
mate, and Garth had shown Viola something of the 
world’s pitiless attitude toward such nameless chii- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


386 

dren. Never before had it been so forcibly brought 
home to her, as when this man had invited her to 
marry him, stipulating only that Hilary should have 
no further part in her mother’s life. He had even 
assured her that most women would in her place 
have always kept the child rigorously out of sight. 

What would Hilary’s future be? What would 
she say when she knew? Would she experience 
that sudden revulsion of feeling toward her mother 
—that recoil which Viola had felt rather than seen 
in Garth Bennet when he had first learned the truth? 

“But if she loves me she’ll forgive me,” she said 
to herself. “And if she doesn’t love me it’ll only 
make her hate me a little more. . . .” 

But then of course Hilary would love her! And 
need she ever know? Oh, she would keep it from 
her as long as she could—until it became urgently 
necessary to speak. There were so few to reveal 
the secret. And if she continued to live in the 
seclusion of Kellioya, surely it would be possible to 
keep the ugly little truth from Hilary’s knowledge, 
perhaps for many years to come. 

She felt that Esme’s death had made Hilary seem 
more than ever entirely hers. 

Garth Bennet returned to the Blairs’ bungalow 
in sobered mood. His host and hostess could see 
that things were going amiss with him, though they 
forbore to question him. But he had been at Eton 
with Mr. Blair, and when the two men were sitting 
in the veranda that evening, drinking coffee and 
smoking, Garth said suddenly: 

“I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been bowled 
middle stump by Mrs. Mansfield. I came down 
here to ask her to be my wife. But it’s all off, and 
I shall go back to Madura to-morrow.” 

“Awkward thing for you living so close to her, 
though,” remarked Blair, who admired Mrs. Mans- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


387 

field immensely but felt that such a mysterious 
creature, of whom no one knew very much, was 
scarcely a suitable person to succeed the late Lady 
Bennet. 

“Oh, I need never see her unless I choose,” Garth 
replied, gloomily. “Her brother’s an old misan¬ 
thrope and something of a miser—a detestable man. 
She has a lively time of it there, I can tell you, and 
he practically insults every man who goes to the 
bungalow. Even Keane, who has known him for 
years, doesn’t often venture there.” 

“She’s not a widow, is she?” inquired Blair. 

“Yes . . . no . . . I’m really not sure.” Garth 
stammered as he uttered the words. Would Viola 
call herself a widow now that Esme was dead? 

“Some queer story behind it all?” suggested Blair. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. In any case she 
was in no way to blame—I’d stake my life on that! 
In fact she’s rather a saint, and a very pious Catho¬ 
lic into the bargain. She was never at all in love 
with me,” he went on, glad to unburden something 
of his story to a trustworthy listener. “She must 
have been badly hurt once, and perhaps she’ll never 
fall in love again. And then she’s devoted to her 
little girl.” 

“Hilary would have made a nice companion for 
Kenneth,” observed Blair. 

Garth was silent. He was thinking of the im¬ 
mense sacrifices Viola had made for Hilary. To 
him they were unnecessary and even quixotic, and 
the whole episode had taught him how inadequate 
the Catholic Church was to cope with complicated 
modern problems. Viola had preferred to brand 
Hilary with the stigma of illegitimacy rather than 
bring her up in the Protestant faith. Never was 
such a clinging to the shadow, such a rejecting of 
the substance! And she had been simply adamant 
on the point—this girl who then had scarcely 


VIOLA HUDSON 


388 

counted nineteen years. . . . The shadow must 
then possess a tremendous significance and impor¬ 
tance for her. It was something for which she 
would conceivably have died, as long ago men and 
women and little children had died in the arenas of 
Rome. And then irrelevantly there came before 
his mind the scene in the little chapel near the river 
at Keliioya. He saw Viola kneeling there, then 
rising and going forward to the altar rails to re¬ 
ceive the Bread of Life. Her faith to her was no 
shadow, it was the one Thing needful. And she 
had lived up to it, to the point of crucifying herself 
and her child. . . . 

It was an indication at any rate of the enormous 
hold the Catholic Church had over her devotees. 
But for this, Viola might at this moment have been 
Esme Craye’s widow, and her child the heiress to 
those millions which Lord Bethnell was commonly 
supposed to possess. 

“There’s a good deal of mystery about her and 
her first husband, you know,” said Blair, after a 
few minutes’ pause. “So perhaps it’s as well for 
you. We’d all like to know much more about her 
than we do. Of course she is beautiful and charm¬ 
ing, and Mrs. Monk for one feels positive there’s 
nothing really queer behind it all. You know 
nothing, I suppose, Garth?” 

Garth set his lips. “Nothing at all,” he said. 

At least her secret was safe with him. 

It was a relief to Viola when she heard from 
Mrs. Monk that Garth had returned to Madura. 
Mrs. Blair had written to say that his visit had 
come to an abrupt conclusion. There was there¬ 
fore no danger of a chance encounter, and Viola 
resolved to stay a little longer in Colombo, as Mrs. 
Monk still wished for her companionship. In August 
she was expecting a party of friends to stay with her 


VIOLA HUDSON 


389 

for the Race Week with its ceaseless round of balls 
and gayeties, when every room in Colombo is occu¬ 
pied by pleasure-seekers from all parts of the island. 

One afternoon she took Viola to see an old 
friend of hers, a certain Lady Robinson, the widow 
of a Colonial knight, who had also spent the greater 
part of her life in Ceylon, and preferred it to any¬ 
thing the West could offer. She had invited all the 
little party, Hilary being especially included. 

Lady Robinson lived in the Cinnamon Gardens. 
Viola was by now fairly familiar with the lovely 
and at that time wild tract of land that lay to the 
east of Colombo, dotted with bungalows possessing 
the most delicious gardens imaginable. Here, away 
from the sea-breezes, the delicate fronds of maiden¬ 
hair fern grew luxuriantly in the borders, and beds 
of eucharis lilies showed their pale fragile blooms. 
But the park-like land that surrounded those dwell¬ 
ings was in itself like a fertile garden, whole tracts 
being covered by the dark-leaved, starry-flowered 
cinnamon shrubs. Here in old days of the Dutch 
and Portuguese settlers endless fierce contests had 
been fought between the European invaders and the 
forces of the native kings for the possession of the 
valuable, coveted cinnamon. The bright lily that is 
cherished in English hot-houses as the Gloriosa 
Superba was there to be seen twining its slim stalks 
amid the cinnamon and opening its gold and scarlet 
throats to the sun. Banyan trees whose branches 
descended to the ground and formed fresh roots 
there, the bread-fruit tree with its magnificent leaves 
and massive fruits, the cashew-nut and camphor 
tree, and the Temple-trees with their flowers of 
waxen whiteness and heavy cloying voluptuous 
perfume, were mingled there w r ith palms of every 
description, the cocoanut, date and talipot and the 
broad emerald leaves of the banana. People rode, 
or walked or played golf there in the cool of the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


390 

evening. If you went far enough you came to 
a quiet little river set in a plain where buffaloes 
with immense horns could be seen feeding tran¬ 
quilly. The banks of the stream were fringed 
with palms, and at sunset it caught something of 
those resplendent hues and became a fiery scarlet 
thread cutting across the quiet green landscape. 

Lady Robinson’s bungalow was built on one 
story, with walls of white stucco and a red roof 
across which a torrent of the inevitable bougain¬ 
villea trailed its vivid blossoms. To the right of 
the house there was a hard tennis court made of 
gravel and beaten and rolled till its surface was al¬ 
most as smooth as a billiard table. As Mrs. Monk 
drove up with Viola and Hilary, they could see 
four active white-clad figures engaged in a game, 
while their hostess, a tall woman with snow-white 
hair and coal-black eyes, watched them from the 
shade of the veranda. 

Lady Robinson was anxious to meet Viola, of 
whom she had heard a good deal from the Blairs 
and Sir Garth. She had suspected the latter of 
using exaggerated language where Viola was con¬ 
cerned, but now that she had seen her for herself, 
she could not but admit that the girl was unusually 
lovely. 

She made Llilary sit beside her. Tea was 
brought out immediately and they had nearly fin¬ 
ished it when the four players abandoned their 
game and strolled toward them, eagerly discussing 
its incidents. Viola was now able to recognize that 
two of them were Mr. and Mrs. Blair. 

Lady Robinson proceeded to introduce her guests 
to each other. u Mrs. Mansfield—-I think you know 
Mrs. Blair? Let me introduce Mrs. Gorston and 
Captain Drew.” 

Mrs. Gorston shook hands with Viola, and then 


VIOLA HUDSON 


39i 

sinking into a capacious chair proceeded to fan 
herself with considerable vigor. 

“So you’ve lost Sir Garth,” Lady Robinson said, 
pleasantly, to Mr. Blair; “I hoped he would stay 
with you till after the Races. But perhaps he will 
come back then?” 

“No, he’s not coming back,” said Blair, taking a 
cup of tea from her hands. “At least only for one 
night. He has to go home. While he was here he 
heard of the sudden death of his cousin, Esme 
Craye, and he inherits something, I forget what. 
At any rate he has to go home about it.” 

“Esme Craye? Oh, I met him at Bangalore,” 
said Mrs. Gorston, who had traveled extensively in 
India and always claimed acquaintance with anyone 
who chanced to be mentioned. “I was very fond 
of him—he was such a good dancer and rode to per¬ 
fection. All the girls were in love with him, but he 
was supposed to be suffering from an unfortunate 
love-affair. Lord Bethnell wouldn’t hear of his 
marrying the girl he cared for, although I believe 
there was nothing at all against her, except that 
she was a Catholic.” She looked at Viola as she 
spoke, but the pale face displayed no emotion. “I 
wonder what he died of?” 

“Heart,” said Blair, laconically. 

“And not thirty years old! Plow very sad . . .” 
said Mrs. Gorston. “I used to think he was one 
of the handsomest men I’d ever seen. But there 
was something odd about him too. You felt that 
you never really knew him.” 

“I remember him,” said Captain Drew, suddenly, 
“tall chap with queer green eyes and fair ham that 
waved like a girl’s. But odd?—I should think he 
was! He was a fine polo-player, but no one really 
liked him.” 

Viola sat very still. More than ever, now that 
he was dead, could he count upon her silence. Only 


VIOLA HUDSON 


392 

Garth had wrested her secret from her in that first 
moment of emotion when he had so roughly con¬ 
veyed to her the news of Esme’s death, and Garth 
for love of her would surely never speak. 

Esme’s face, pale and agitated as she had last- 
seen it, seemed to be swimming before her now in a 
sea of mist, like a drowning man’s. . . . 

No one should guess, from any sign that she 
might give, that she was the Catholic girl whom 
Esme had loved, that this child who sat near her 
was the fruit of that love. . . . 

“You are looking very pale, Mrs. Mansfield,” 
said Lady Robinson, kindly; “I hope you aren’t feel¬ 
ing the heat too much? Let me give you another 
cup of tea.” She took Viola’s cup and poured some 
strong aromatic tea into it. Viola drank the stimu¬ 
lant eagerly. 

She could hardly bear to look at Hilary then. 
The child displayed that marked and striking re¬ 
semblance to her father which had always been one 
of Viola’s peculiar torments. How far would she 
resemble him in character? Would she be pos¬ 
sessed by that fierce egoism—that fantastic charm— 
that smiling deceit? She hoped and prayed not. 
Hilary would know certain spiritual truths of which 
Esme had ever remained in ignorance. But Viola 
knew nevertheless that Hilary’s true character 
would never be revealed till the day of reckoning 
came. Then surely it would be seen in all its naked 
truth. Hilary under that fiery test would reveal her 
true colors. Viola shivered, despite the clammy 
heat of the Colombo evening. 

She was incapable of sorrow now when she 
thought of Esme. Could it be that she had grown 
hard? But if so it was life that had made her 
hard, and all the suffering and shame through which 
she had passed as through avenues of fire. And 
it was Esme who had brought that suffering and 


VIOLA HUDSON 


393 

shame into her life. It would always be there, like 
a black shadow from which she could never escape. 
Enveloping herself and Hilary as with a cloud. . . . 

“Perhaps he will mention this girl in his will,” 
said Mrs. Gorston, who was much addicted to the 
reading of romances. “That would be thrilling, 
wouldn’t it?” 

“Very thrilling and most unlikely, my dear,” said 
Lady Robinson, placidly. “Now you must all come 
and see my garden,” she added. 

She rose and led the way. Viola was thankful 
to escape from the nightmare little discussion. She 
had feared the sharp scrutiny of Mrs. Gorston, who 
knew so much of the truth. How had she learned 
it? Esme would surely have been the last person 
to divulge anything of it. 

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Mrs. Gorston mur¬ 
mured confidentially to Captain Drew as, after a 
tour of the garden, they returned to the tennis court 
to resume their game. “She has a terrible old 
brother at Kellioya, I believe, w T ho won’t let her see 
a soul and is rude to anyone who goes there. I sup¬ 
pose there is something odd about her story, and 
he’s afraid of someone finding out what it is.” 

“Blair tells me it’s all over between her and 
Garth,” said Captain Drew; “he seems to have 
gone back to Madura quite disconsolate.” 

“Perhaps she isn’t free. That’s what Lady Rob¬ 
inson thinks,” said Mrs. Gorston. 


CHAPTER XVI 

I T WAS about a week later, and Viola was form¬ 
ing plans to return to Kellioya. She was alone 
one evening, Mrs. Monk having been invited to dine 
at Queen’s House with the Governor and his wife. 
She had wished she could take Viola, who was, how- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


394 

ever, secretly, immensely relieved that this was out 
of the question. Mrs. Monk went off in high 
spirits, wearing a perfectly new dress of filmy black 
chiffon which had just arrived from Paris, and some 
fine diamonds. 

“Well, good-night, my dear,” she said, kissing 
Viola. “Perhaps you’ll take the opportunity of go¬ 
ing to bed early.” 

Viola was sitting alone in the drawing-room after 
dinner. The three big windows opened upon the 
veranda, from which a step took one into the gar¬ 
den. There was a cloying fragrance of jessamine 
and Temple flowers that seemed to make the heavy 
air unusually trying. The night was still and very 
hot. 

Outside, the moonlight shone on the grove of 
palms so that their black fronds shone like polished 
argent. There was a broad golden path of light 
across the sea, which to-night was so smooth and 
calm that its murmur was scarcely apparent. 

Suddenly she heard a slight stir in the veranda, 
and looking up quickly she saw a man’s figure stand¬ 
ing in the archway of the window nearest to her. 
She could not see his face, but from his height she 
immediately recognized Garth Bennet. 

“I am sure Mrs. Monk will forgive my calling 
at such an unearthly hour,” he said, “but I am 
leaving quite early in the morning. I only arrived 
in Colombo to-night.” 

“Mrs. Monk is dining at Queen’s House,” she an¬ 
swered. 

“Then you’re alone?” 

“Yes, Pm alone. Won’t you sit down?” 

“Let’s sit in the veranda—it’s cooler,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

She rose and went out; they found some chairs, 
and for a little while sat there without speaking. 

The sky was all illuminated with moonlight, and 


VIOLA HUDSON 


395 

the shadows of the garden were colored like ebony. 
The palms were heavily etched in black and silver. 
From a neighboring native quarter they could hear 
the melancholy beat of the tom-toms, the monoto¬ 
nous singing of the coolies. And while they listened, 
it seemed to them both that they were remote and 
apart from the rest of the world. 

“Is there no hope for me, Viola?” he said at last, 
abruptly. 

“None at all. I’m sorry that you came to-night. 
It would have been better to go away without seeing 
me again.” 

“And that’s just what I couldn’t do,” he an¬ 
swered. “I want you to give me a little hope. I’m 
sure you could provide for Hilary, and of course I 
should let you go and see her whenever you wanted 
to. She should have every possible advantage in the 
way of education. She is so very young now, that 
I think she would soon forget you and settle down.” 
His voice was sad. It seemed to him that if Viola 
refused to marry him the future could hold no pos¬ 
sible happiness for him. 

“I can only say what I said before. I wouldn’t 
part from Hilary for all the world.” 

His heart sank. It was less possible now than 
ever, to introduce Hilary at Stonewood. Esme’s 
child—and with that striking resemblance to her 
father, too, which he felt he must have been blind 
never to have perceived before! People might no¬ 
tice it. He had always disliked Esme; now, looking 
at Viola, he felt that he could hardly refrain from 
actively hating him. He had taken Viola’s life into 
his hands, and broken and wrecked it. When he had 
sought to make amends she must already have 
known to the full his faithlessness, his falseness. 
Still, not one woman in a thousand would have acted 
as she had done. Most women would have eagerly 
welcomed the opportunity of legalizing the position 


VIOLA HUDSON 


396 

of their own child before it was too late. Viola was 
the exception, and he did not believe she had even 
now begun to regret the sacrifice she had made. 

“You’ve sacrificed yourself enough for Hilary,” 
he said, at last. “It’s time that you thought of your¬ 
self a little. The life out here will kill you, Viola. 
People are making up all sorts of stories about you 
—they have scented a mystery—they want to know 
why you never speak of your past life nor of your— 
husband. . . . Even Blair said something to me. 
If you were my wife I’d take you away from all that. 
You’d be happy at Stonewood—my mother and 
sister would be devoted to you. . . . And I should 
try to make up to you for all that you have suffered.” 

“I can never be your wife,” she said. “I shall 
never abandon Hilary. She’s my own child, and 
she comes first. I don’t mind what people say and 
conjecture a bit. When I go back to Kellioya they’ll 
soon forget me. Don’t please try to see me again.” 
There was a subdued, controlled passion in her tone. 

Garth rose and paced the veranda restlessly. 
When he came back to where she was sitting he 
stopped in front of her. “You must be made of 
iron,” he said. “And you seem to think I’m making 
an extraordinary condition. Didn’t it ever strike 
you that it would be better to hide Hilary? Even 
at first, I mean—soon after she was born?” 

She looked at him with her cold soft scrutiny. 

“No. I wanted her too much,” she said, simply. 
“It must be terrible for a child to feel it isn’t 
wanted.” 

And she thought of the first moment when Re¬ 
becca had put Hilary into her arms. She had only 
been afraid then lest something should happen to 
the too fragile little life, so intimately bound up 
with her own. . . . 

“Viola, I am a rich man. I could make very 
large settlements upon you without injuring Ken- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


397 

neth in the least. I could settle Madura on you.” 
He came a step nearer. 

“It isn’t a question of money at all,” said Viola. 
“And I have quite enough for myself and Hilary. 
We shall never be at all rich, but at least we shan’t 
starve.” 

Garth looked at his watch. The homeward- 
bound steamer was leaving early, and he still had a 
good deal to do. He was staying at the hotel and 
had not even told the Blairs of his arrival. What 
spare time he had in Colombo he had always re¬ 
solved should be given to Viola. He would make 
one more effort to win her. He would break down 
that indifference of hers. He would plead as never 
before. And it had all been utterly useless. . . . 

“I am going now, Viola. If you should ever 
change your mind will you write to me?” 

“I shall never change my mind,” she said, quietly, 
“and you’d better try to forget me. I’m not—I 
could never be—the right woman for you. There’d 
always be something which would make you a little 
ashamed when you thought of me. You’d be afraid 
of people finding out—something. It wouldn’t be 
easy for either of us. Even if there were no Hilary, 
you would be ashamed of me sometimes when you 
thought of the secret we were both hiding.” She 
rose to her feet. “Good-by,” she said, “I hope 
you’ll have a nice voyage. Perhaps you won’t re¬ 
turn to Madura just yet?” There was something 
of entreaty in her voice, as if she were imploring 
him not to come back while he still loved her. 

Garth took her hand and kissed it and then with¬ 
out a word went down the steps into the garden. 
She watched him as he threaded his way through the 
narrow sandy paths between the clumps of croton 
and oleander. Soon he was lost to sight in the 
shadows. There was no pain for her in this parting. 
The very slight feeling she had had for him was 


VIOLA HUDSON 


398 

dead. Even to the last he had so cruelty believed in 
his own power to separate her from Hilary. 

She was still sitting there, deep in thought, when 
she heard carriage wheels approaching. A few 
minutes later Mrs. Monk came out into the veranda. 
She was astonished to find Viola still there, at that 
comparatively late hour. 

“Oh, my dear, I hope you didn’t sit up for me? 
I thought you would have been in bed long ago.” 

“No, I didn’t want to go to bed,” said Viola, 
looking up. “It was so very hot. I hope you had 
a nice evening?” 

“Delightful!” said Mrs. Monk, “there were some 
charming people from London—he is very literary, 
quite a well-known man, and with such a pretty, 
artistic-looking wife. They were most interesting— 
one so seldom hears that kind of talk in Colombo! 
It made me almost long to live in London again.” 
She sighed. 

“Well, why don’t you?” inquired Viola. 

Mrs. Monk shook her head. “I should feel ut¬ 
terly out of it now,” she said; “you know, I came 
here as a girl nearly forty years ago. I was mar¬ 
ried the day after my arrival. And I’ve only been 
home three times. All my people are dead except 
a brother I hardly know. Ceylon is realty our 
home and we shouldn’t be happy anywhere else. 
Now tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself 
all the evening?” 

“I had a visitor,” said Viola. 

“A visitor?” 

“Yes. Garth Bennet came to say good-by to me. 
He leaves for England to-morrow to settle things 
in connection with his cousin’s estate.” 

“When did he come down?” inquired Mrs. 
Monk, who was a little puzzled by the situation 
thus disclosed. 

“Only to-night. And the steamer leaves early. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


399 


He hoped you wouldn’t mind his calling at such an 
unconventional hour.” 

“On the contrary, I’m delighted you should have 
had company while I was out. I hated leaving you 
alone all the evening. But, you know, we regard in¬ 
vitations to Queen’s House almost as royal com¬ 
mands !” 

Viola rose languidly. “Garth tells me people are 
talking about me here,” she said, with an effort; 
“they don’t seem to be satisfied with what they know 
of my story. And I don’t want—I can’t . . . it’s 
impossible for me to say any more than I’ve always 
said.” 

“My dear, there is no earthly reason why you 
should satisfy the curiosity of the Colombo gos¬ 
sips!” said Mrs. Monk, very kindly indeed. 

“But I think, on the whole, I’d better go back 
to Kellioya,” said Viola. “Of course I’ve loved be¬ 
ing here—it’s been the most delicious change. It 

was very dear of you to have me. ^ 

“Oh, but I don’t want you to go away at all. I’ve 
loved having you. And I’ve been hoping perhaps 
some day that you and Garth Bennet—” 

Viola stood there in the golden lamplight, her 
cheeks flushed, her eyes shining. “No—I shall 
never marry him,” she said, with decision. do- 
night he came to ask me again. But this must be a 
se cret—please don’t tell anyone. I think I’ve made 
him understand now that he must never think of it 


agam. , 

“I was afraid you were not free, said Mrs. 

Monk, “and you Catholics are so strict, are you 

not?” , 

Viola went up to her impulsively and put her 

arms round her neck. . T £ „ 

“But that is just the hard part of it 1 am free, 
she said. “I’m telling you, because you’ve always 


VIOLA HUDSON 


400 

been so kind to me. But don’t satisfy the Colombo 
gossips—Fd rather no one else knew.” 

“Then why won’t you marry Garth Bennet? He 
seems perfectly devoted to you. Everyone has been 
talking about it. And his friends thought he would 
never get over the shock of losing his first wife.” 

Viola shook her head. 

“I’m not the right wife for him,” she said. “I 
think he sees it now. I was sorry he came here 
to-night.” 

She kissed Mrs. Monk and trailed slowly out of 
the room. A little breeze had sprung up, stirring 
the great black fronds of the palms and emphasizing 
the murmur of the sea just beyond the garden. 

“Poor little girl,” thought Mrs. Monk, compas¬ 
sionately. 


CHAPTER XVII 

T EIREE days later the little party returned to 
Kellioya, arriving at the close of a golden 
evening. The recent rains had washed the world 
to a wonderful fresh greenness. Even the rolling 
patanas showed a gleam of emerald on their brown 
burnt slopes. A great hedge of scarlet geranium was 
in blossom, and Viola thought she had never seen 
such flowers, they looked as if they had been fash¬ 
ioned of glowing red velvet scented with a perfume 
at once sharp and sweet. The air was filled with 
the delicious almond fragrance of the cinchona. 
The roses and honeysuckle climbing up the roof of 
the bungalow were in full bloom, mingling with the 
deep mauve bells of the thunbergia. Suddenly Viola 
felt glad to be back. It was like coming home, and 
the golden evening light seemed to smile a welcome 
upon her. And she was safe here, safe from prying 
eyes, from inquisitive lips, safe from chance en- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


401 


counters. Oh, in time surely she would learn to be 
happy and contented at Kellioya, and to bear the 
limitations of the life it offered. She would do her 
best to please Matthew. She felt that she wanted 
to live and to die here in these beautiful solitudes, 
with Hilary. 

“Matthew!” 

He was sitting in the veranda, and hearing Viola’s 
voice he rose and stood at the top of the steps, a 
gigantic rough-hewn figure of a man. 

“Hullo, Viola! So you have got tired of 
Colombo? You’re back sooner than I expected.” 

He gave her his hand. They did not kiss each 
other, but she felt his attitude was unexpectedly 
friendly. 

He had in truth missed Viola more than he would 
have cared to own. 

“Glad to see you back,” he continued. “Have 
some tea?” 

“Yes, thank you—tea is just what I want. But 
isn’t it rather late?” 

The old Appu and some of the other servants had 
now appeared, to greet Viola on her return. Smil¬ 
ingly they made profound salaams. Tea was then 
ordered, and as Viola sat there drinking it, with 
Hilary close beside her, she said suddenly: 

“Matthew—I’m glad to be back. I don’t think 
I shall ever want to go away again.” She gazed at 
the quiet garden and a very soft contented look 
came into her face. 

“Oh, some day I hope you’ll have a home of your 
own. And then perhaps Hilary will stay here and 
keep her old uncle company!” 

His words startled Viola. So he knew. . . . 
Had Garth spoken to him, and divulged the terms 
on which he was prepared to marry his sister? Was 
it possible that the two men had met during her 
absence, and discussed ways and means? Was this 


402 


VIOLA HUDSON 


new friendliness on the part of Matthew merely 
symptomatic of his attitude toward the proposed 
marriage? Instinctively she stretched out her hand 
and drew little Hilary closer to her. Was Matthew 
also in league with the rest of the world to try to 
deprive her of her child? His hearty almost affec¬ 
tionate manner had completely deceived her. She 
had even believed that he was evincing pleasure at 
her return! Perhaps he was counting confidentially 
upon her making this brilliant marriage to wipe out 
the inglorious past and rehabilitate herself in the 
eyes of the world. . . . What hurt her most was 
his easy acceptance of her willingness to part with 
Hilary. 

And he was ready to pave the way by signifying 
his readiness to keep Hilary with him. He had no 
love for the child, and often he had recommended 
Viola to adopt stern measures to repress her fits 
of naughtiness. 

“What do you mean, Matthew?” she said, at last. 

“Oh, don’t pretend ignorance,” he said, still 
good-naturedly. “I had a talk with Keane after 
you’d gone, and he was anxious I should have an 
interview with Bennet, he didn’t say why, and I 
really thought he wanted to discuss that bit of land 
there’s always been a dispute about. However, I 
consented to see him, and then he told me he was 
going to Colombo to ask you to be his wife. He 
knew about Hilary, and he said he didn’t see his 
way to having the child in his house, and I agreed 
to keep her here if the marriage took place. So I 
knew that he went to Colombo to propose to you. 
I knew 7 the conditions on which he was prepared to 
marry you—the very handsome settlements he was 
willing to make. I’m not a fool, Viola, nor are you. 
You must see what an excellent marriage this would 
be for you—quite beyond all your deserts. It would 
atone for the criminal folly you’ve shown in the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


403 

past. And Hilary is much less likely to be ruined 
with indulgence if I have the bringing up of her.” 
He smiled grimly. 

“Matthew,” said Viola, “you can’t really believe 
that I’d give up Hilary for anyone in the world?” 
She leaned back in her chair in a kind of drooping 
attitude, as if strength had gone out of her. 

“I should have thought you would have been 
only too thankful to hand her over to me, and put 
the past out of sight once and for all. Hilary will 
have a good home here, and I shall take jolly good 
care not to spoil her. Bennet will take you to Eng¬ 
land for the present and put a manager on Madura. 
I must congratulate you on your success, Viola.” 

“You needn’t congratulate me. I’m not going 
to marry Garth Bennet. I tell you I wouldn’t give 
up Hilary for any man on earth. She’s my own 
child. . . .” She clasped Blilary to her. “My duty 
lies with her.” 

“Don’t cant about duty to me, Viola!” he shouted, 
in a loud angry voice that startled Hilary so that 
she began to whimper and cry with fear. “If you 
had ever had any sense of duty Hilary wouldn’t be 
in the world to-day!” 

“But since she is in the world—poor darling 
baby—I’m going to keep her always where she has 
every right to be. With me.” 

“Viola, you don’t mean to tell me that you’ve 
refused Bennet?” His voice was raised almost to 
a hoarse scream. 

“Certainly I’ve refused him. He’ll be glad one 
of these days. He wouldn’t have been really happy 
—he would have brooded over things.” 

“You must be mad!” shouted Matthew, who was 
paying no attention to her words. “Even if you 
hadn’t cared for him you ought to have gone down 
on your knees to him in gratitude! * Why, it was 
the chance of a lifetime! And it wasn’t as if you 


VIOLA HUDSON 


404 

hadn’t encouraged him. You were seen more than 
once walking in the dusk together. And he told me 
he was prepared to accept the conditions laid down 
by your Church—that he’d thought better of your 
Church ever since he’d known you. But he made it 
quite plain that you must give up Hilary. I agreed 
with him. I saw it was the only course to adopt. 
People can’t mix their children like that. You were 
to turn a clean page, make a fresh start. And now 
just for a whim you mean to chuck away the best 
chance you’re ever likely to have.” 

“It is not a whim. Hilary is my child, and I 
have my duty toward her. My duty isn’t changed 
because through no fault of mine she isn’t legiti¬ 
mate.” She rose now and faced him. “Do you 
think I’d leave her with you, Matthew, in a place 
where she was cut off from her religion and had no 
one to teach her about it? Do you think I’d aban¬ 
don her to be brought up without any love at all, 
just as I was, to be licked into shape, as you call it, 
by you? Never!” Her eyes flashed; she looked 
splendid then, simple, but infinitely tragic. 

“I’d bring Hilary up to behave herself. I know 
it’s not kind to the child to surfeit it with indulgence 
and petting. Correction is necessary.” 

“I was brought up without love, after my mother 
died,” said Viola, bitterly, “and I know what it 
means. And I was corrected, as you call it, and 
I know what that means. So I’m going to keep 
Hilary with me till she doesn’t want me any longer, 
and while she’s with me she shall be as happy as 
I can make her.” 

“All this is beside the mark, Viola,” stormed 
Matthew; “we are not discussing Hilary’s future 
but yours. You shall marry Bennet—I insist upon 
it!” His red-brown eyes gleamed with rage under 
the bushy penthouse brows. “You shan’t stay here 
in any case—a nameless woman with a nameless 


VIOLA HUDSON 


405 

brat! You’ve told your story to Bennet, and do 
you think he’ll keep it to himself after the way 
you’ve treated him? The whole island will know 
what my sister is, and I’ve always held up my head 
here among my fellow-planters. A nice way of 
showing your gratitude to me! I’ve been respected 
all the years I’ve lived in Ceylon. And now you’ve 
come here to smirch my name, and you refuse to 
take this simple means of whitewashing yourself. 
Bennet’s a young fool, but he’s got money, and he 
means business. You’re years younger than he is 
and he’s a widower, so no one can say he was caught 
in your toils!” 

“Please stop, Matthew. I really can’t bear any 
more. And he understands—he knows I must be 
faithful to Hilary. . . .” 

She moved away. Matthew followed her with 
his eyes. Rage and hatred were in the look he gave 
her, mingled with a certain wondering incomprehen¬ 
sion. She wasn’t in the least dazzled by the bril¬ 
liancy of Bennet’s offer. She had simply thrown it 
aside, scarcely considering it, although she had cer¬ 
tainly seemed to like the man, and there was much 
in it to tempt any woman, especially one who had 
a great deal to gain by making such a marriage. 
But then Matthew had never been able to make 
Viola realize her own ambiguous, anomalous posi¬ 
tion. She didn’t seem to mind. She had deliber¬ 
ately chosen to be nameless; she had chosen too that 
Hilary should be nameless. She had thrown away 
every chance that had been offered to her. It would 
serve her right if when Hilary grew up she should 
renounce this religion for which her mother had 
paid so dearly, and for which she had made such 
quixotic sacrifices. Oh, Hilary wouldn’t thank her 
if she grew up to be the girl Matthew took her for! 
She would resent it, and probably in her young de- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


406 

spair she would fling aside the very thing that Viola 
had staked all to secure for her. 

When he was angry he liked to think that Viola 
would be sorry one of these days for her fatal 
obstinacy. She would regret, too, that she hadn’t 
followed his advice. There was a nice moment 
awaiting her when Hilary grew to years of discre¬ 
tion, and arrived at that age when girls seem least 
able to be influenced by their mothers. 

Viola went into the nursery. She put Hilary on 
the bed, with a precious new doll, purchased in 
Colombo. 

“My brother is very angry with me, Rebecca. I 
expect we shall have to leave Kellioya.” 

“I should be very sorry to do that, ma’am,” said 
Rebecca. 

“Should you? Why?” inquired Viola, secretly 
astonished. 

“Well, ma’am, it’s so peaceful—so out of the 
world. So good for Baby ...” 

“Oh, yes, it is all that. But for you and me, 
Rebecca—” 

“Oh, we can put up with a good deal, ma’am, for 
Miss Hilary,” said Rebecca. 

“I think you’re right, Rebecca.” 

“I’ve always said she ought to be our first con¬ 
sideration, ma’am,” said Rebecca, sententiously. 

“Yes. I’ve certainly made her mine.” 

“You’ll never be sorry for that, ma’am.” 

Viola sat by the bed and began to play with 
Hilary, who was a little tired and fractious after her 
journey. But she was always patient with her, and 
knew how to coax her back into a good humor. She 
could not, however, chase away her own feeling of 
sadness. There had been something very enchant¬ 
ing about the thought of returning to a world where 
everyone was kind and welcoming, where the 
tragedy of the past could be, if not forgotten, at 


VIOLA HUDSON 407 

least relegated to obscurity. A world, too, where 
she would not always be in disgrace. And yet she 
had never hesitated. She had accepted the simple 
gray lot of remaining in the wilderness with her 
baby. 

“She must love me, she must,” she thought. 

With her tumbled crinkly hair Hilary was looking 
very like her father. She often had his proud and 
wilful expression in her little face. Already she was 
hard and determined and resolute like Esme. 

“If she’s a good Catholic she’ll understand,” 
Viola thought. 

Everything depended upon that. If, when Hilary 
learned the truth, she was able to say to her mother, 
“I’d rather have my faith than anything else you 
could have given me,” all would be well. But there 
was in most young lives a period when faith meant 
a little less, when its flame burned perhaps a little 
more dimly. Many of the saints even had passed 
through that bitter experience. It was the age when 
the world and its toys and prizes offered an enchant¬ 
ing seductive allure that eclipsed for the moment 
eternal things. Viola had known such a time herself 
when she had consented unconditionally to marry 
Esme. Love could sometimes plunge a very young 
and untried girl into that bitter conflict with faith, 
warring in her heart for the mastery. That had 
been her own lot, and faith had been temporarily 
defeated in the struggle by that passion of love 
which Esme had evoked within her. But afterward 
she had felt the horror and shame and tragedy of be¬ 
ing separated through her own wilful, malicious, and 
deliberate fault from those holy things that were 
part of her heritage. She had learned the worth of 
them, their vital eternal significance, in that period 
of fiery suffering. It had made her resolve to offer 
any sacrifice rather than to let Hilary be deprived of 
her spiritual inheritance. And blindly, obstinately, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


408 

in face of all temptation, she had clung to that 
resolve, shutting out, as she was doing now, all tem¬ 
poral advantages from her own life. . . . 

At dinner that night Matthew said to her, after a 
few moments of stormy silence: “I had a visit from 
Keane after you’d gone to your room. He tells me 
that Garth Bennet has left Ceylon and won’t be back 
here for a long time. He went to England last 
week, and he’s putting a manager on Madura. 
Keane is to keep an eye on the place, too. It’s the 
best thing he could have done in the circumstances. 
Keane says there’s a girl at home his people want 
him to marry.” 

“I knew he had gone,” said Viola. “I saw him in 
Colombo the night before he sailed.” Her voice was 
cold and proud. Try as he would, Matthew could 
discover no hint of regret in it. 

She was hardly thinking of Bennet then. Her 
eyes were somberly regarding the gray avenue of 
years down which she must pass. 

“So there’s no reason for you to leave Kellioya,” 
continued Matthew; “you can stop on if you like.” 
His anger had subsided. Viola was still to him the 
goose who laid the golden eggs, swelling ever his 
already handsome store of rupees in the Colombo 
bank. 

“Thank you, Matthew. As you know, I don’t at 
all wish to go away.” 

Whether this was a reprieve or a fresh sentence 
of imprisonment, she could not tell. But it was a 
relief to feel that she could once more settle down 
at Kellioya for an indefinite period, with Hilary, 
who throve so well in that salubrious mountain 
climate. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


409 


CHAPTER XVIII 


“/^OME in out of the sun, my precious!” 

V> “Shan’t, mummy.” Hilary’s voice came crisp 
and decisive from the other end of the garden, 


where she was playing under the shade of the euca¬ 
lyptus trees. It was a brilliant day in March, a time 
of the year when people were unanimously fleeing 
from the great heat of Colombo to the cooler regions 
of the hills. 

At Kellioya it was one of the most charming 
moments of the year. The warm, fine days suc¬ 
ceeded each other with uninterrupted splendor, and 
the garden was a blaze of flowers. An endless chain 
of white butterflies, journeying in so. compact a 
squadron that it almost seemed as if an invisible link 
joined them together, had been flying all day across 
the garden in an unbroken, continuous string. They 
would fly in this way perhaps for several days, united 
in their deliberate and collective seeking of some 
unknown and mysterious bourne. 

Hilary delighted in the butterflies. She did not 
attempt to touch them, for she was afraid of hurting 
their pretty, fragile wings, and. besides she liked to 
watch them passing like pale winged flowers. 

She was five years old now, a lovely, dainty crea¬ 
ture with the cut features, the clear green eyes, the 
proud wilful look of Esme Craye.. Her hat had 
slipped back, displaying the fair crinkled hair that 
grew close and thick to her head like a boy s. 

Viola was sitting in the veranda, keeping an eye 
on the child but never disturbing her in her games. 
Still, it was getting hot, and she would have to come 
in soon, and perhaps do a few lessons before she 
went to have her morning sleep. Just ten minutes 
more . . . and then she would go out and fetch her. 

Viola leaned back in her wicker-chair and lan- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


410 

guidly took up a copy of the Queen, now some weeks 
old. Cecily had sent her a bundle of English papers. 
It was a kind thought. 

She scanned the advertisements, half envying the 
power of women in England to purchase becoming 
and fashionable raiment at so low a price. She 
sighed. Eler white dress, made by a queer old native 
tailor in the back veranda, did not in the least 
resemble these recent charming modes. 

Two years and a half had gone over her head 
since that visit to Colombo when she had seen Garth 
Bennet for the last time. He had never returned to 
Ceylon, and had married more than a year ago a girl 
who was said to be very pretty and charming. 
Already they had one little girl. Keane used to 
bring Viola news sometimes of the household at 
Stonewood. 

Keane had his elder son David with him now, and 
together they worked Madura as well as their own 
estate. Viola liked David Keane, a handsome, ener¬ 
getic boy who was rapidly becoming his father’s 
right hand. So there had been changes in the dis¬ 
trict, though they had not affected her. But Mat¬ 
thew, discovering one day that she could keep 
accounts with neat and meticulous accuracy, permit¬ 
ted her to undertake the estate books. Thus she 
had work to do, and she was glad of it. She typed 
his business letters for him, filing the carbon copies. 
In all her work she was exact and punctual. Mat¬ 
thew said little, for he was a firm believer in the 
distressing theory that praise “turned people’s 
heads.” So he did not commend, although he would 
pounce upon the least error or inaccuracy with singu¬ 
lar ferocity. Viola was very submissive, and the 
work gave her occupation, an interest, too, in the 
affairs of the estate. At his request she had also, 
not without misgivings, invested some of her little 
capital in Kellioya. An adjoining estate came into 


VIOLA HUDSON 


411 


the market, and as it had long been a Naboth’s vine¬ 
yard to Matthew, he bought it. Money was re¬ 
quired to develop it, and as he disliked borrowing at 
a high rate of interest he suggested that some of 
Viola’s capital should be used for the purpose. At 
first she refused, feeling that it would make it more 
and more difficult for her to leave Ceylon if she 
wished to do so. But a nerve-racking scene followed 
her refusal, and for peace sake she gave way. She 
received no interest on her money, Matthew retained 
it all, as he said, for her keep. 

Since she had had some insight into his affairs, 
she had discovered that Matthew must now be a 
very rich man. Rich and miserly. He never offered 
to give her any remuneration for her work, nor to 
reduce the annual sum he extorted for her own board 
and Hilary’s. Moreover, he had complete control 
now over part of her money. 

This thought disturbed her, because it had never 
been her intention to keep Hilary in Ceylon when she 
had reached an age to begin her education seriously. 
She had always resolved to send her to a convent 
school, either in Italy or in England,, and make a 
home for her in the holidays. This time was now 
approaching, for Hilary was advanced and pre¬ 
cocious for her five years, and lessons must soon 
begin in good earnest. 

“Really, Viola, if you don’t insist upon that child 
obeying you, we shall be having her laid up with sun¬ 
stroke.” Matthew’s voice, loud, exasperated, nerve- 
racking as ever, struck a discordant note across these 
reflections. 

“Hilary doesn’t mind the sun. But I’ll fetch her 


in soon. 

“She must be made to mind you” said Matthew. 
“She can stay there ten minutes more—it won’t 

hurt her.” 

“I’ll fetch her in! It’s time she learned to obey I 


412 VIOLA HUDSON 

He half rose, but Viola put out a pale, detaining 
hand. 

“No—you’re so rough with her, Matthew. You 
treat her like a school-boy. She’s afraid of you.” 

“A jolly good thing she’s afraid of someone!” 

Viola said quietly: “I don’t want her to be afraid 
of anyone. It only makes children into little liars. 
Besides, she isn’t naughty, Matthew.” 

“She’s disobedient and impertinent. If I had my 
way—” 

“Oh, I know.” Her voice was weary. 

“Well, if she were my child—!” 

“Yes?” She leaned forward a little, fixing her 
dark grave eyes upon him. Her voice, for all that 
it was so cold, seemed to convey a challenge. 

“Perhaps I’d better not say.” 

“I suppose you’d beat her—a poor little baby of 
five!” 

“Five? She’s nearly six. And she has hereditary 
tendencies. I thought you were obliged to believe in 
original sin!” 

Matthew’s temper had grown worse of late years. 
It needed all her patience, all her self-abnegation, to 
bear with him at times. And if only he wouldn’t 
vent it on poor little Hilary! 

She laughed now at his speech about original sin. 
Matthew thought the laugh unnatural. There was 
nothing to laugh at in the spectacle of Hilary’s un¬ 
corrected disobedience. Indeed he had found few 
things in life to tickle his sense of humor, while 
many, including Viola and Hilary, were wont to 
arouse his fiercest indignation. 

“You should have been a schoolmaster, Matthew, 
not a tea-planter.” 

Matthew sprang up from his chair. The vision 
of a now hatless Hilary dancing in mock pursuit of 
the endless, moving chain of white butterflies was 
altogether too much for his composure. Mother 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 i 3 

and child both required a salutary lesson, Viola quite 
as much as her disgraceful little daughter. Before 
Viola could stop him he had descended the steps into 
the garden, rushed across the lawn, and arrested the 
dancing little nymph-like figure that was poised so 
gracefully against the vivid background of green. 

It was too late to interfere. Viola watched the 
little scene not without trepidation. Of course Mat¬ 
thew wouldn’t hurt her. He would carry her into 
the house, struggling and crying, overwhelmed with 
anger and fear. There would be a scene. She 
sighed. . . . 

“If I weren’t here,” she thought. “But I am 
here,” she comforted herself. 

Matthew’s huge, ungainly form, for the years had 
not dealt kindly with him and had increased his bulk, 
stood giant-like beside the little slender figure with 
its uncovered silver-fair hair. He grasped her arm 
with rough strength. “Didn’t you hear your mother 
call? You’re to come in at once!” 

Hilary struggled to release herself from that iron 
grip that was bruising her tender flesh. She stamped 
her foot. 

“Go away, Uncle Matt! I hate you—I hate 
you!” 

“You’d hate me a little more if I gave you what 
you really want,” he answered, grimly. 

“I don’t want you!” 

“No, but you want the soundest spanking a little 
girl ever had!” 

He clapped his hands smartly as if to give her 
some idea of the procedure. Finding herself thus 
unexpectedly released, Hilary danced away from 
him, darting after a gorgeous butterfly that floated 
indolently past with iridescent wings boldly marked 
in scarlet and gold. 

She leapt into the air with an agile, childish move¬ 
ment, lifting her little hands while the butterfly 


414 


VIOLA HUDSON 


sailed out of reach. Matthew approached her un¬ 
seen and caught her in his arms. He wasn’t going 
to be flouted by the brat! He lifted her from the 
ground, and Hilary found herself held as in a vise. 
She screamed and kicked, and then proceeded to 
belabor his face with her two small fists. A well- 
directed smart blow upon his nose aroused Mat¬ 
thew’s real anger. He put her down, just in front 
of the veranda, and taking her hands in one of his 
proceeded with the other to inflict a number of 
cruelly severe blows. At the second blow Hilary 
realized that this was no game. She shrieked with 
pain and terror, but the hard slaps rained down 
inexorably. Matthew had lost all control of him¬ 
self, and he put forth his whole strength. His eyes 
were ablaze with an ugly fury that made him look 
like a madman. Viola rushed to the spot, and in 
dragging Hilary away received the last blows upon 
her own hands. 

She gathered the child in her arms, kissing and 
comforting her, while Hilary wrung her hands, all 
bruised and scarlet and aflame from those sounding 
stripes. 

“Give her to me—you shan’t have her!” said 
Matthew, following them into the veranda. His 
look and tone were so fierce that Viola wondered if 
she were dealing with a madman. 

“Don’t dare to touch her again,” she exclaimed. 

“Give her to me—she hasn’t had nearly enough—” 
he stormed. 

He made a rush toward them. Hilary gave a 
piercing scream and clung to her mother. Then 
something happened, so quickly and suddenly that 
Viola was never afterward able to give any succinct 
account of it either to herself or anyone else. Her 
brother lurched forward, and suddenly all power 
seemed to leave him; he tried to approach her and 
could not. He fell back heavily into a chair and his 


VIOLA HUDSON 


415 

head dropped to one side. His face changed and 
became suffused, congested, purple. His breath 
came in loud stertorous gasps. 

Viola was appalled. She felt sure that he must 
be very ill. Perhaps this fit of violent, uncontrolled 
anger had brought on a stroke. For some time past 
he had complained of his head, and he had been 
much redder in the face of late than he used to be. 
But he had never been really ill; he had not missed 
a single day’s work through illness all the time Viola 
had been at Kellioya. She was aghast at the sight 
he now presented, and believed that he must be 
actually dying. She shouted for the servants, and 
then dragging Hilary with her went in search of 
Rebecca. 

“Rebecca,” she panted, “keep Hilary with you. 
My brother’s been taken ill—I’m afraid he’s had a 
stroke. He was very angry with Hilary—look at 
her poor little hands how he’s hurt them—he looked 
as if he wanted to kill her—and then all of a sudden 
he fell into a chair and became unconscious. I must 
go back to him.” 

She was tremulous and excited. 

Rebecca examined Hilary’s hands with an expres¬ 
sion of extreme disgust. 

“Well, it’s a judgment on him then, that’s all I can 
say. Torturing a poor baby like this!” 

“Oh, don’t say that, Rebecca. Perhaps he wasn’t 
feeling quite himself and we irritated him. Stay 
with Rebecca, my precious darling.” She kissed the 
tear-stained face. It was Hilary’s first authentic 
experience of pain, and she was still trembling and 
shaking. 

“I hate Uncle Matthew! He’s a bad, wicked 
man!” She clenched the wounded hands. 

Viola hurried away. The servants, had managed 
to raise Matthew and were half carrying, half drag¬ 
ging him to his room. It required all their united 


VIOLA HUDSON 


41 6 

efforts to lift the huge unconscious man on to his bed, 
where he lay gasping and snorting in a manner that 
filled them with terror. 

A messenger was despatched at once to Nuwara 
Eliya to summon the doctor, while another went off 
in hot haste to inform Mr. Keane. The bungalow 
was full of sounds, or voices and hurrying footsteps; 
it seemed as if it had been awakened from a long 
sleep, and all its monotonous order and punctuality 
shattered by the sudden tragic event of the master’s 
illness. 

Viola never left his side. Would he ever recover 
consciousness? Such a death as that, accelerated by 
a paroxysm of cruel rage and violence, seemed to her 
almost the most terrible thing that could have 
happened. 

And what would become of them—herself and 
Hilary—if he died? Although she had lived for 
several years at Kellioya, Matthew had never 
alluded to the eventual disposal of his property. 
The transferring of her money to him had been done 
somewhat informally, and he always got angry if she 
spoke of it or asked for security. Money was the 
one subject which he could not bring himself to dis¬ 
cuss temperately. Would his death leave her ruined? 
The estate was his own; he could bequeath it where 
he would, and it would be difficult for her to sub¬ 
stantiate her claim to a loan of which there was no 
record. 

The doctor arrived in the early hours of the fol¬ 
lowing day, having ridden almost the whole distance 
from Nuwara Eliya. Mr. Keane and David were 
both staying at Kellioya for the night, to be at hand 
in case Viola needed help. From the first she had 
taken a hopeless view of the case, and when the doc¬ 
tor came he could only confirm her fears. There 
was little probability of Matthew's ever recovering 
consciousness, or of speaking or recognizing anyone 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 i 7 

again. He diagnosed the malady as one of the 
acutest forms of apoplexy, producing rapid paralysis 
of all the limbs, and generally resulting in death in a 
few hours. 

At half past ten on the following morning Mat¬ 
thew Hudson died. He had neither moved nor 
spoken, and it was strange that in death his queer, 
rugged, massive face should have become once more 
so pale and calm. 

Some months before, he had entrusted his will to 
Keane’s keeping, and when this document was 
opened, duly attested by five witnesses, of whom 
Keane himself had been one, it was found that he 
had left the whole of his property, real and personal, 
wheresoever and whatsoever, to his sister Viola 
Hudson, known as Mansfield, for her sole use and 
enjoyment. The fortune was a considerable one, for 
Matthew had constantly bought and sold land in 
Ceylon, and he had put by every rupee that he could. 
Kellioya was famed for its tea, and its value was 
increasing every year. It was Viola’s now to do 
exactly as she liked with. She was a rich woman, 
and she was free. . . . 

She resolved to take Hilary back to Europe. 


END OF BOOK II 







VIOLA HUDSON 

Book III 




VIOLA HUDSON 


Book III 


CHAPTER I 



HE immense snowy peaks, rising above the 


dense bar of gray cloud that enfolded like a 
furry blanket the lower slopes of the Alps, were 
touched to rose-color in the sunset. They were 
clear, hard and defined; remote from the shadows 
that were beginning to fill the valley with dusky veils 
of blue. The Lake of Como caught something of 
the rosy light from the illumination of the sky, and 
across it Viola Mansfield could see the houses and 
graceful campanile of Bellagio shining with a golden 
jewel-like radiance. 

Along the lakeside the Spring was beginning to 
reveal itself in vague tentative effort, with flowers 
and blossoms rather than with leaves, as is almost 
always the way in Italy. The villa gardens dis¬ 
played thickets of crimson rhododendrons, and 
avenues of tall camellia trees, stately and dark¬ 
leaved and starred liberally with wonderful rose- 
colored flowers. The white and pink of cherry 
blossom showed among the first delicately bronzed 
leaves, and shook its pale froth amid the groves 
of gnarled and ancient olive-trees. Gay carpets of 
tulips, cinerarias, and anemones made brilliant 
patches between the spaces of young grass. Wist¬ 
aria was beginning to ripple its violet foam over old 
gray walls, filling the air with its sharp almond fra- 


422 


VIOLA HUDSON 


grance. A dim mist of purple hung over a group 
of Judas trees. There was even a trickle of emerald 
on the gaunt knots of the vines that guard so closely 
all through the winter the secret of their fresh young 
foliage and golden bunches of fruit. 

The snow-air from the Alps still chilled the valley. 
Looking northward, beyond the winding turquoise 
of the lake, one could see the snow fields spreading 
upon those lofty and remote summits. The pink 
glow was fading a little now, giving place to a cold 
violet blue. 

Viola Mansfield gave a little shiver and went in¬ 
doors. She found Hilary sitting pensively beside a 
crackling wood fire. 

“I’ve made tea, Mummie,” she said, as her 
mother entered the room. 

“I thought you were going to the Meades’ this 
afternoon, Hilary.” 

“No—they’ve got a fresh lot of people from Eng¬ 
land there. And I hate it then—I feel so out of it!” 

Mrs. Mansfield glanced a little anxiously at her 
tall young daughter—taller by half a head than she 
was herself. Hilary was rather more than seven¬ 
teen now, and she was old and assured for her years. 
She was perhaps more unusual-looking than very 
pretty, although artists—and there were always a 
great many staying or living along the Lake of 
Como—had frequently called her beautiful. Her 
fair hair with the deep crinkle in it showed charming 
golden tints, and crowned her small head like an 
aureole. She had clear green eyes —vert de mer, as 
a French artist had once called them—set under 
long dark eyebrows and fringed thickly with black 
lashes. She looked with a frank gaze upon a world 
of which she had so far no fear. She had one pas¬ 
sion in her young life—her love for her mother. 
They were more like two sisters than mother and 
daughter to look at, but they had the wide diver- 



VIOLA HUDSON 


423 

gence of outlook that necessarily divides arbitrarily 
one generation from another. 

At thirty-seven Viola was still very young-looking. 
She was almost more beautiful now, though some¬ 
thing of the radiance of her early loveliness had 
gone. She was strong, active as a girl, with much of 
the eagerness of youth still visible in her sensitive 
face. It was only the fact of her possessing such a 
grown-up daughter as Hilary, that seemed in a sense 
to age her. 

For eleven years Viola had lived in the little villa 
she still inhabited on the shores of Lake Como. It 
had been a very happy home to both herself and 
Hilary. She had bought it with some of the money 
Matthew had left her. 

Hilary had been educated at a convent school in 
Florence and had only lately returned home for 
good. She was sorry when the time came for her to 
leave, although she was perfectly happy with her 
mother and had even dreaded the school terms that 
had interposed so inexorably to separate them. But 
during her last term a change had come over her. 
She seemed to have put away quite definitely the 
things of a child. She had looked out upon 
the future with her serene young gaze, realizing its 
possibilities. But it seemed to her that whatever 
her vocation might prove to be, it would entail leav¬ 
ing her mother, and this thought hurt her. Viola 
was her whole world. ... * 

Viola knew nothing of these hopes and fears. She 
did not question her daughter. She left Hilary per¬ 
fectly free. But she knew in her heart that this child 
of hers was a creature of precocious development, 
both physically and spiritually. It might be that to 
her the choice of a vocation would come very early. 
And then the old doubt would arise to torment 
Viola. Had she done well to keep Hilary in igno¬ 
rance of her parentage? She had not wished to 


424 


VIOLA HUDSON 


cloud the child’s happy, care-free youth with the 
knowledge of that tragedy that had so over¬ 
shadowed her own. 

Hilary poured out tea, waiting prettily on her 
mother. Then she said suddenly: 

“Mummie, don’t you think that now I’m nearly 
grown up we might go to England? I should so 
like to go.” 

Viola paused. “I’m afraid there’s no chance of 
my being able to take you there just now,” she said, 
in a hurried, evasive voice. “What made you think 
of it?” 

She looked at Hilary almost with terror in her 
eyes. 

“Joyce made me think of it. She says it’s so odd 
our living here from year’s end to year’s end. Never 
going home. ...” 

“Many English people spend their lives in Italy,” 
Viola said, in an odd, constrained, unconvincing 
tone. 

“But when they do,” said Hilary, her courage 
increasing, “there’s generally something—queer— 
about them. Something that prevents them from 
showing their faces in England. Or else—-they 
haven’t any relations there.” 

Viola’s face was very pale; she turned it a little 
away from Hilary’s clear gaze—those young eyes of 
vert de mer color. Esme had had just those eyes in 
the days of his innocent, eager boyhood. . . . 

The girl came across the room and entwined her 
mother with warm, loving arms. There was just a 
hint of protection in her attitude—she was so much 
the bigger and stronger of the two. “Mummie, dar¬ 
ling,” she said, coaxingly, “don’t let’s pretend to each 
other that there’s nothing odd about it. You know 
it and I know it. It all comes of you and—and my 
father having been separated while he was still alive. 
Now don’t say it doesn’t! I’m old enough to know 



VIOLA HUDSON 


425 

much more about it.” She leaned over Viola and 
pressed her glowing young cheek to her mother’s. 
“I’m really old enough to know just why you 
quarreled.” 

“Oh, it isn’t that you’re not old enough, darling,” 
said Viola, in a hurried, nervous voice that betrayed 
both fear and emotion. “I’ve always treated you as 
if you were someone of my own age. A younger 
sister rather than a daughter. I didn’t want you to 
feel the barrier of years when you had only me. But 
it is—it is that it hurts me so to speak of the past, 
Hilary. There were things that I can’t bear even 
now to talk about—things that are as old as you are, 
Hilary.” 

Her face under the cloud of dark silken hair 
was pallid, troubled. Hilary, not moving, loving 
the close contact as she always did, could not see the 
startled look that had come into her mother’s eyes, 
giving them almost an expression of wildness, as if 
something were pursuing her, menacingly, to her 
hurt. . . . 

When Hilary spoke like that, demanding as it 
were to be told more fully the story of her mother’s 
life, it seemed to bring the day of revelation so close 
that Viola could almost feel its icy breath upon her 
face. 

“Mummie, I really think I could make it quite 
square between you and my father’s people. What¬ 
ever the quarrel was they couldn’t possibly be so 
very angry after eighteen years. And I should like 
to know them. I should like to hear all they can tell 
me about—my father. I’m sure he must have been 
a very wonderful person or you wouldn’t have loved 
him.” 

Viola released herself gently. The touch of 
Hilary was almost unbearable then. 

“Hilary, if anything else had been possible, you 


426 VIOLA HUDSON 

know that for your sake I should have tried to do it 
long ago.” 

“I’m sure he must have loved you very much,” 
proceeded Hilary, calmly reflective. “You’re so 
beautiful, Mummie. Mrs. Meade thinks you’re the 
prettiest woman she’s ever seen. She told Joyce,” 
with a happy little laugh, “that I should never be a 
patch on you! Still, all the same, I think my grand¬ 
parents might like to see me. Their own grandchild, 
too. I’m a credit to you, don’t you think so, Mum¬ 
mie? Healthy and tall, and not too hideous! I 
really believe I should produce an excellent impres¬ 
sion upon them!” 

“I’m sure you would,” said Viola, with uncon¬ 
scious dryness. 

“Then why, darling Mummie?” 

“Hilary, be kind to me! Don’t talk about it any 
more. You must give up this dream of going to 
England. I can only tell you that if it had been 
possible I should have tried to change things, but 
always—always, do you understand?—it’s been im¬ 
possible!” Viola rose from her seat. She laid her 
hand lightly on Hilary’s shoulder. “I am going to 
Benediction.” 

“I’ll come with you,” said Hilary, suddenly 
sobered. She was no longer unmindful of that note 
of urgent appeal in her mother’s voice. 

There was a mystery—just as Joyce Meade had 
suggested. People didn’t stay away from their own 
country for years and years unless there was a grave, 
imperative reason. And it was something that her 
mother couldn’t bear to speak of. Something that 
made her look all white and shaken. . . . 

Soon they were walking up the steep, flagged path 
that led to the church. It stood amid the houses of 
the old village, perched high above the modern little 
lakeside town with its big hotels and smart shops and 
Restaurants, that catered almost exclusively for the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


427 

endless stream of tourists that thronged the place 
at all seasons of the year. 

Hilary loved her Italian home. She had never 
before betrayed any desire to leave it. Her memo¬ 
ries of Ceylon had grown remote and shadowy, 
although sometimes the almost fierce perfumes of 
hothouse flowers could evoke them. She had con¬ 
fused visions then of dark faces beneath white tur¬ 
bans, and a great angry man who had hurt and 
frightened her. 

Matthew Hudson had not left an agreeable im¬ 
pression upon his niece’s subconsciousness; he had 
taught her the twin lessons of fear and dislike. 
Viola had, however, long ago forgiven him. He 
had been kind to her in his own queer, rough way, 
and he had left her amply provided for. Hilary 
would have quite a substantial dowry if she chose 
to marry. 

They climbed the hill in silence, both perhaps 
thinking of that recent conversation. To Viola it 
had been quite a momentous one. That sudden peti¬ 
tion to go to England, to know more of her father’s 
family, had shown her that Hilary was getting a 
little restive. She was too mindful of her own girl¬ 
hood not to recognize the symptoms of that restless 
desire for change which is after all but a sign o! 
wholesome youth. Yes, it was little more than 
eighteen years ago since she had lounged on the sofa 
in the fog-dimmed London room, rebelling secretly 
but passionately against her lot. It was the day that 
had brought Lady Bethnell, whose coming had 
initiated the first act of the little tragedy. 

But Hilary was still thinking obstinately of her 
dead father. Joyce Meade had sown the elements 
of suspicion in her mind. “Who was your father, 
Hilary? Don’t you remember him at all? How 
long’s he been dead? And why didn’t he and your 
mother live together?” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


428 

Hilary did not care particularly for Joyce, but she 
was one of the few English girls of her own age in 
the neighborhood. They were perforce fairly inti¬ 
mate, and Hilary was frequently invited to the huge 
palatial villa with its splendid show gardens that 
attracted visitors from all parts of the world. 
Hilary had flushed a little under the storm of ques¬ 
tions. She felt the sting of Joyce’s innuendoes. 

“I’ve never asked Mummie about him,” she had 
replied, cautiously, “I only know he died when I was 
very small. And I think it’s cheek of you to ask 
me,” she added, with indignant candor. 

But Joyce was not one to be easily snubbed. Her 
position as the only and much admired daughter of a 
very wealthy man was too secure for that. But her 
pretty little retrousse face had grown suddenly spite¬ 
ful as she said: “Well, I’m not the only one to ask, 
if you want to know. We’d all like to know a little 
more about Mrs. Mansfield, even though we do 
admire her so tremendously!” 

The cool impertinent voice had stung Hilary 
sharply. Why did they ask such questions? Why 
wasn’t it enough for them that her mother was 
beautiful and good, and far, far superior to them 
all? And then perhaps for the first time Hilary 
began to realize that her situation was, to say the 
least of it, an unusual one. This living perpetually 
abroad, for instance, and never seeing any of her 
other relations. . . . All her life she had known 
vaguely that her parents had never since she could 
remember lived together, but she had accepted it 
quite simply and had never until now asked herself 
or anyone else the reason why. 

“It can’t have been your mother’s fault,” Joyce 
had pursued, with a worldly-wise air, for she had 
heard the matter thoroughly discussed by her own 
parents. She was a little older than Hilary, and had 
already had a season in London and several offers of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


429 

marriage. “But you could choose to go and live 
with your father’s people now if you liked. You are 
old enough, and you ought to see something of your 
own country.” 

Whereat Hilary had tossed that yellow mane of 
hers, replying scornfully: “As if I should ever 
choose to leave my mother!” 

“But if they were rich they could give you a good 
time. You’d see a little of the world. This place is 
all right in spring and autumn, but it’s frightfully 
slow all the rest of the year. I sometimes wonder 
how you can stick it, Hil.” 

Joyce had come up close to her then and taken her 
arm. But Hilary intensely disliked any human con¬ 
tact except that of her mother. Young as she was, 
there was something austere about her. She wrig¬ 
gled herself free. 

“I don’t find it dull. I can’t imagine what you 
mean.” 

“Well, my own impression is that there must have 
been a divorce, and after that perhaps your father 
married again, or else he would certainly have 
claimed his right to see you some time or other.” 

“Catholics don’t divorce,” Hilary had answered, 
loftily. From beginning to end she had hated the 
discussion thus thrust upon her. It had filled her 
with shame and a curious instinctive repugnance; it 
had even made her feel a certain hostility toward 
Joyce Meade. In her malice there had been a touch 
of unaccustomed evil which Hilary s pure, limpid 
nature had been swift to reject. And yet it was that 
very conversation which had forced hei to envisage 
her own situation, not only in regard to her mother 
but also in regard to herself. She had to repress a 
violent curiosity to learn more of this unknown man 
who was now dead and who had once loved her 
mother. For the next few days she had deliberately 
avoided Joyce Meade. And then this afternoon a 


430 


VIOLA HUDSON 


sudden impulse, fortified by that spirit of fierce curi¬ 
osity, had impelled her for the first time to question 
her mother. 

She was sorry now that she had done so. With 
Hilary repentance was wont to follow hot-foot upon 
the tiniest lapse. She knew that she had hurt her 
mother, that the wound, whatever its nature, had 
not healed during the long years of separation. 
Hilary cast furtive, longing glances at her mother. 
How lovely she looked in her dark winter furs. She 
still retained a youthful, girlish aspect, and there 
had been moments when Hilary had almost felt her¬ 
self to be the elder of the two. She had the modern 
way of looking at the truth, however disagreeable, 
however unpalatable it might be, straight in the face. 

“Mummie darling, I’m sorry; I was a beast,” she 
whispered, slipping her arm in Viola’s. 

They had reached the piazza upon which the little 
white church with its slim spire had stood for so 
many hundreds of years. Outside the doors a few 
peasants had already congregated as well as a 
sprinkling of visitors from the hotels. 

Viola entered the church and Hilary followed her. 
The interior was bare and whitewashed, but there 
was a lovely fragment of an ancient fresco of the 
Mother and Child, surviving the damp of centuries. 
And as in so many places around the Lake of Como 
the church possessed a painting by some unknown 
artist, of the Transfiguration. In many places in 
Italy a special devotion is locally emphasized; 
thus in the South around Naples there is scarcely a 
church that does not contain a painting of the Risen 
Christ. 

As the priest carried the Blessed Sacrament in a 
gold Monstrance to the throne above the tabernacle, 
rough, fervent voices sang the O Salutaris. It was 
followed by the Litany of Loreto and a prayer. 
Then the Tantum Ergo —that magnificent chant of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


43 i 

pure singing worship—sounded through the church. 
A bell rang sharply, and the priest, raising the Mon¬ 
strance in his hands, blessed the kneeling people. 

Neither for Viola nor for Hilary had the service 
ever lost its beauty, its mystical significance. 

The strong perfume of incense filled the church. 
Peasant voices sang the Divine Praises in a monoto¬ 
nous chant instead of merely reciting them as is 
usually the case. The sound rose with a kind of fierce 
fervor like a passionate profession of faith. . . . 

When Hilary followed her mother out of the 
church her face was changed, all subdued and soft¬ 
ened and reposeful. 

It was dusk now, and the stars were beginning to 
show. A bat fluttered past. From the fields about 
them came a freshness as of falling dew. Below them 
were the scattered lights of the little town, and across 
the slim arm of the lake they could see the straight 
row of lamps that illuminated the strand at Bellagio, 
casting trembling rosy reflections into the black 
water. Far off, beyond the lake and the wooded 
hills that rose above it, they could see the great 
shape of Monte Grigna outlined dimly against the 
sky. The snows upon it pierced the dusk with a 
faint pallor. 

The mother and daughter walked back to the 
little villa in silence. 


CHAPTER II 

W HEN Hilary went up to her room that evening 
to take off her hat and coat,, she found 
Rebecca there, putting away some linen in a drawer. 
The maid had grown thinner and grimmer than ever, 
but something of indulgent tenderness showed in her 
harsh-featured face as the girl appeared. She took 


VIOLA HUDSON 


432 

the coat from her without a word and hung it up 
in the wardrobe. 

Great as was her devotion to Viola, her feeling 
for Hilary was even more intense; there was some¬ 
thing almost maternal in it, and she still sometimes 
claimed the privilege of rebuking her. The girl 
always took it in good part; she had a deep affection 
for her old nurse who, as she dimly comprehended, 
had followed her mother with dog-like fidelity into 
that exile imposed by an imperfectly-apprehended 
tragedy of which Viola could never be induced to 
speak. 

In Ceylon as well as in Italy, there had always 
been Rebecca, grim, silent, of almost forbidding 
aspect, yet exhibiting a fidelity of devotion that was 
like a strong passion. 

“Becky, did you ever see my father?” Hilary in¬ 
quired, suddenly, standing in front of her with her 
clear green eyes fixed searchingly upon the maid’s 
face. 

There was an appreciable pause, and then Re¬ 
becca answered slowly: “Yes, Miss Hilary.” 

Hilary was aware of a reluctance that teased her 
own curiosity anew. 

“Well, tell me what he was like, then!” 

She sat down and motioned Rebecca to a chair. 

“I hope you won’t talk like that to your ma, miss,” 
said the maid, in a tone of grave reproach, “it would 
hurt her very much.” 

“Why should it hurt her?” inquired Hilary. “Be¬ 
sides, we never do have any secrets from each 
other.” 

But even as she uttered the words the remem¬ 
brance of their conversation that very evening rose 
to her mind. All that part of Viola’s life which held 
the figure of Hilary’s father was rigidly kept from 
her. And before even the mention of it Viola 
seemed to shrink and grow pale, as if the remem- 


VIOLA HUDSON 433 

brance of that long-past tragedy could still affect her 
profoundly. 

And it was only through the careless agency of 
Joyce Meade that Hilary had been forced to realize 
that she and her mother were still in some sense 
living under the cold shadow of it. . . . 

“Now, Becky dear, do tell me what he was like! 
I’m simply enormously curious!” 

Leaning forward, Hilary possessed herself of one 
of Rebecca’s hard, gnarled hands, a gesture that 
seldom failed of effect. 

“He was tall and fair. His hair and eyes were 
like yours,” said the maid, at last. 

She had never known the exact truth about the 
rupture between Hilary’s father and mother, but she 
remembered the day when he had come to the Hud¬ 
sons’ house in South Kensington, pale, eager, obvi¬ 
ously agitated, and had afterward gone away, never 
to return. She could only guess therefore that some¬ 
thing very terrible must have happened to separate 
them, even before the child of their love was born. 

“Would you have called him good-looking, 
Becky?” asked Hilary. 

“Some people might,” answered Rebecca, as if 
disinclined to commit herself to a definite opinion. 

“Oh, I wish I could have seen him, or even a 
photograph of him!” exclaimed Hilary. “What a 
pity he died so young—he wasn’t thirty, was he? 
If I could only go and visit his parents I should learn 
so much about him. It’s quite time to bury that silly 
old hatchet, don’t you think so, Becky? And then 
there are my Hudson uncles and aunts—I ought to 
know them, too. Margery is much older than I am, 
and she has been engaged for ages to a man with 
hardly any money, Mummie says. I don’t think I 
should care for her or Lionel, but I’m sure I should 
like Uncle Percival.” 

“Yes, I think you would, miss.” 


434 


VIOLA HUDSON 


“Was my father a rich man?” 

“I’ve heard the family was very rich, miss,” an¬ 
swered Rebecca. 

“He must have loved Mummie very much,” pur¬ 
sued Hilary, thoughtfully. “I wonder why he left 
off loving her?” 

“I’m sure I can’t tell you, miss. But,” with a 
sudden touch of passion that made her old face work 
with repressed emotion, “he must have been a bad, 
cruel man to treat her as he did. One of your faith¬ 
less sort. I wonder you can want to hear anything 
about him or his family!” 

“Well, after all, he was my father,” said Hilary, 
soberly. “And it isn’t nice to feel that you’ve lots of 
relations in England you’ve never seen. And w T hen 
other people begin to talk about it, too—and say 
things—!” She stopped abruptly, with flaming 
face. 

“People ain’t got no call to talk about other 
folks’s affairs,” retorted Rebecca, angrily. “Live 
and let live—that’s what I always say. No one ever 
lost anything yet by minding their own business.” 

“How old about would he have been now?” asked 
Hilary. 

Rebecca appeared to make a rapid mental calcu¬ 
lation. “About forty-two or three,” she answered. 

Hilary rose, threw her arms round the old 
woman’s neck, kissed her impulsively, and went 
downstairs. She had learned something, not a great 
deal, but the information, such as it was, had 
strongly stimulated her curiosity. For all that con¬ 
cerned this dead man whom she had never seen, had 
now become of the most passionate interest to her. 
Surely there must have been something romantic and 
splendid about him thus to have won her mother’s 
love. Viola had no intimate friends, and from this 
Hilary had deduced the fact that she would never 




VIOLA HUDSON 435 

have lightly given her affection, much less her love, 
to any man. 

When she went down to the salotto after leaving 
Rebecca, Hilary saw her mother sitting quietly by 
the fire reading a novel, and she felt that she was 
regarding her from an entirely new angle. There 
was a touch of mystery about her, as if she lived in 
a remote, inaccessible region whither none could 
penetrate. How young she looked—how young in¬ 
deed she still was. And for more than eighteen 
years she had lived in exile, separated even during 
his lifetime from the man she had once loved, and 
who assuredly must have loved her. . . . 

The girl had always pictured her father as a much 
older man, over fifty perhaps, with gray hair and a 
beard like Mr. Meade. But now he had become in 
her imagination a romantic and youthful figure. 
Had he lived he would have been, according to 
Rebecca, but little over forty. Tall, fair, with odd 
crinkly hair and queer green eyes, like her own. . . . 

For some time past Viola had realized that the 
friendship with Joyce Meade had offered Hilary a 
certain test. The Meades were rich people who 
made of their beautiful villa on Lake Como a holi¬ 
day home. They usually spent a couple of months 
there twice a year, entertaining their London friends 
with sumptuous hospitality. Their garden was 
famous even in that land of lovely gardens. Joyce, 
like Hilary, was an only child. All that wealth could 
give was lavishly bestowed upon her. Her clothes 
were exquisite, and everything about her small 
attractive person was daintily perfect. But she had 
nothing of Hilary’s wholesome beauty; that look of 
supple strength; that bright, spontaneous gayety and 
inherent sweetness of disposition. She had a dark 
little malicious face, very pretty, with a kind of 
sharp shrewish attraction. It was said that few men 
came to the Villa Glicine without falling in love with 


VIOLA HUDSON 


43 6 

her. And Joyce accepted their attentions with a cool 
impartial air; she knew that one day her great 
prospective wealth would entitle her to make a very 
brilliant marriage. Not yet of course, she wasn’t 
nineteen; she intended to have a good time first. 
But she talked endlessly to Hilary about her matri¬ 
monial ambitions, taking her into another world 
where bartering and scheming seemed oddly to usurp 
the place of love. At first the friendship had pro¬ 
gressed somewhat rapidly, and Viola had felt a little 
secret anxiety. Hilary was far too generous to envy 
the little creature her evident powers of attraction, 
indeed she had at first been disposed to give her the 
kind of callow worship one girl will sometimes be¬ 
stow upon another a little older than herself. But a 
chance acid word against Catholics and their Faith 
achieved the idol’s precipitate fall. 

Hilary, silent about the affair while it was in prog¬ 
ress, a little dazzled and bewildered by Joyce’s 
patronizing preference, made confession of it later 
to her mother when her first indignant surprise and 
pain had subsided. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Mummie?” 

“I knew I could trust you to reject what you didn’t 
feel to be quite right,” Viola had answered, conceal¬ 
ing her intense relief. 

“But weren’t you afraid that Joyce might influ¬ 
ence me?” 

“Not in the least.” 

“But she might have—she would have—if she 
hadn’t said that against Catholics to me!” 

“That’s a very big if for us, Hilary.” 

“Well, I suppose we shall go on being friends, 
because I love going there and meeting people. 
Sometimes very clever people. But we can’t go on 
being intimate friends.” 

Viola had not interfered because it was no part 
of her intention to shield her daughter from all con- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


437 

tact with the world, especially with the Protestant 
world. She wanted her to realize the inestimable 
gift that was hers, in relation to others as well as in 
relation to herself. And so far the girl’s faith pos¬ 
sessed an ardor, a limpidity, which Viola herself had 
never savored till she was much older and suffering 
had taught her its harsh, severe lessons. 

“I like you to go there,” Viola had said; “it’s only 
right you should see other young people. And they 
are very kind.” 

“But you never come yourself,” said Hilary, won¬ 
dering. 

“ N ° 

And it was just that persistent withdrawal of 
Viola’s that had prompted the little discussion at 
Villa Glicine of which the gist had subsequently 
reached Hilary’s ears. 

Mrs. Meade, an indolent fashionable woman, in¬ 
different to her husband but devoted to her daughter, 
was fond of Hilary, and encouraged the friendship 
between the two girls. Hilary was in her opinion 
both simple and charming, and detached no admira¬ 
tion from Joyce. In fact, her height and length of 
limb, the bigness of her, made Joyce’s small finished 
perfection look as delicate as a piece of china. No, 
there was little fear of any rivalry from that quar¬ 
ter. Invitations to the Villa were never lacking, and 
Viola thought they supplied Hilary with all the 
amusement her nature needed. Only this afternoon 
for the first time the girl had displayed that unex¬ 
pected restlessness and desire for change—away 
from Italy. It was just as if a sudden nostalgia for 
England, her own land which she had never seen, 
had gripped her. And Viola’s secret thought was: 
“Anything but that. I’d give her almost anything 
else ...” 

Presently a note was brought in and handed to 


VIOLA HUDSON 


43 8 

Hilary. It proved to be from Joyce, inviting her 
to Villa Glicine to luncheon the following day. 

Hilary scribbled a reply, only saying, “I suppose 
there’s nothing against my lunching with the Meades 
to-morrow?” She was conscious of having rather 
neglected Joyce of late, since that conversation about 
her father. 

“They’ve got a new young man staying there,” 
said Hilary, glancing again at the letter. “Joyce 
says he’s very charming, she wants me to see him, 
too. But she doesn’t mention his name.” 

She tore up the note and threw the fragments into 
the glowing fire of olive-wood, watching them 
dreamily as they burned to fine ashes. 


CHAPTER III 

H ILARY walked down to the lakeside, and then 
followed the broad white road that ran south¬ 
ward beyond the shops and the great hotels that 
were already rapidly filling with English visitors for 
the Spring. 

It was a bright clear day, and the fragrance of 
Spring was in the air, wafted from fields of wild 
flowers on the wings of a boisterous young wind. 
The lake lay very calm, like a sheet of blue crystal, 
broken here and there by a brown sail. On the 
slopes the orchards wore their tremulous silver gar¬ 
ments of blossom. Bright edges of green broke here 
and there the dim brown and purple tones that lay 
like grape-bloom upon the woodland. Across the 
space of shining water Bellagio looked like a little 
golden city in the sunlight. 

She soon came in sight of the high iron gates of 
the Villa Glicine, which stood well back from the 
road upon a slight eminence, approached by a mag¬ 
nificent avenue of cypress trees. 


VIOLA HUDSON 439 

The big salotto was unusually full of people when 
Hilary entered it, and across the buzz of conversa¬ 
tion she became speedily aware of Joyce’s rippling 
laugh. The girl was standing there, just beneath 
the crystal Venetian chandelier, dressed very charm¬ 
ingly in white. Seeing Hilary, she sprang forward 
eagerly to greet her. She was looking even prettier 
and more animated than usual. 

Hilary shook hands with her hostess, and with 
Mr. Meade, a bald silent person who kept his opin¬ 
ions very much to himself, having realized long ago 
that they were not of the kind which would endear 
him to his wife and daughter. But he liked Hilary 
and always had a dim smile of welcome for her. 

Most of those present were people who lived in 
the neighborhood, and Hilary knew them all 
slightly. She did not at first discern the young man 
whom Joyce had seemed so anxious for her to meet. 
Presently she saw him standing near the fire, talk¬ 
ing to another man. He was about twenty-two 
years old, slight and boyish-looking, the face rather 
thin and serious, the hair and eyes dark. He had 
watched Hilary as she came into the room, and had 
thought that into the slightly enervating and arti¬ 
ficial atmosphere of the Villa she seemed to bring 
something of the wild fragrance and beauty of the 
Spring. 

“Won’t you introduce me to your friend?” he 
said, presently, to Joyce. 

“But of course you must know her. We asked 
her on purpose to meet you,” said Joyce, frankly. 
She went up to Hilary saying: 

“Hil, I want to introduce Mr. Kenneth Bennet 

to you.” 

He took Hilary’s hand. “Mrs. Meade’s been 
telling me that your mother used to live in Ceylon. 
So did my father when I was quite a little chap— 


440 VIOLA HUDSON 

he had an estate there called Madura, but he’s sold 
it now.” 

“Yes, we were both out there living with my 
mother’s brother,” said Hilary, “but I hardly re¬ 
member it at all. We came to Italy when he died.” 
She gave him these details quite simply. 

Hilary had never heard the name of Bennet in 
connection with those early Ceylon days, conse¬ 
quently it conveyed nothing to her. At luncheon 
Kenneth sat between her and Joyce, dividing his 
conversation fairly equally between the two, a fact 
which Miss Meade, who wished to claim it all, 
secretly resented. She divined that for some reason 
or other his interest in Hilary was sharply stimu¬ 
lated by the fact that she had been in Ceylon. 

Quite apart from this, however, Kenneth was in¬ 
terested in Hilary herself. When he turned his 
grave eyes toward her he was struck afresh by the 
splendid type of girlhood she presented. Tall, 
supple, strong, she looked like a young goddess. 
Those clear green eyes enchanted him. At home 
his stepmother was a sickly neurotic woman, and 
he had begun to associate all women with failing 
health and irritable nerves. But Hilary Mansfield 
didn’t look as if she possessed such things as nerves. 
He felt almost grateful to her for her aspect of 
splendid health, her bright wholesome beauty. 

As she sat down he noticed that she crossed her¬ 
self. He gave her a sharp look and said: “Are you 
a Catholic?” 

“Yes. Are you?” said Hilary. 

“Yes. My father was a convert. I was only 
seven at the time, and of course he brought me up 
as one. I went to Catholic schools.” 

Hilary thought: “Surely, Joyce won’t want to 
marry him when she know he’s a Catholic. She’s 
always scoffed at our Faith.” 

Her interest in Kenneth was awakened by this 


VIOLA HUDSON 


441 

disclosure. “Oh, do tell me about your father! I 
like to hear of conversions—they always seem so 
wonderful—such miracles.” 

“I don’t know very much about it,” he confessed. 
“The only thing he did tell me was that he once 
knew a very good woman who was a Catholic, and 
that started him thinking about it. He heard her 
saying a prayer once that impressed him very much 
—he always said it every day afterward—and it 
ended in his becoming a Catholic himself.” 

“I wonder what it was,” said Hilary, softly. 

“I can tell you that, because he urged me always 
to say it,” said Kenneth, coloring slightly and speak¬ 
ing very low so that no one else could hear. “It 
was, Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee.” 

As if confused by the intimate character of this 
revelation he turned abruptly away and began to 
talk to Joyce. It was inexplicable even to himself 
that he should have told Hilary that little episode 
of his father’s life. She was such a complete 
stranger . . . and yet she had not somehow seemed 
like a stranger. 

Hilary was slightly startled because the prayer 
was a favorite one of her mother’s, and ever since 
she could remember, Viola had taught her to say it 
not once but many times during the day. And it 
was this that had wrought the wonderful miracle of 
a conversion . . . perhaps because this appeal to 
the Sacred Heart of Our Lord, one of the most pro¬ 
foundly mystical of all devotions, was never suffered 
to fall unheeded. 

Joyce was annoyed at the friendliness that had 
sprung up so swiftly between Kenneth and Hilary. 
All the time he was talking to her she felt that he 
was only doing so out of politeness, and that he 
really wanted to talk to Hilary. She was so accus¬ 
tomed to relegating Hilary to an obscure position 
in the background, to be taken out and played with 



VIOLA HUDSON 


442 

when there was no one more interesting about, that 
she had come to underrate her significance. 

As the only son of a very rich man, Kenneth pos¬ 
sessed a certain importance in her eyes. His cold 
reserved manner had piqued her, during his brief 
stay at the Villa. But something of his coldness 
and reserve seemed to vanish when he talked to Hil¬ 
ary Mansfield. 

“I want to make a study of some of these North 
Italian cathedrals and churches,” he told Hilary, 
presently. “I expect you know them pretty well, 
don’t you?” 

“Not well,” she answered, “but I’ve seen a good 
many of them. It’s very old-fashioned, I know, but 
my mother and I often go sight-seeing!” 

She laughed. 

“Sight-seeing? Why, I should think so! It’s 
what one comes to Italy for. I’ve been to Rome 
and Florence, but all this part round here is quite 
unknown to me. We might go together perhaps—” 
He looked at her quite eagerly when he made this 
suggestion, as if he feared that she might refuse. 

But Hilary only said: “I shall be delighted.” 

“You’re not eating anything,” he remarked, pres¬ 
ently, when Hilary, having partaken of some maca¬ 
roni, refused two meat dishes in succession, eating 
only some vegetables. 

“But it’s a Saturday in Lent,” she explained, with 
a smile. 

“Oh, do you keep Saturdays here? In England 
our maigre days are Wednesday and Friday. I 
must remember next week—it’s too late to-day. I’ve 
already had some meat.” 

“I’ve never been in England,” said Hilary. 

“Never been in England?” His astonishment 
was intense. “But why on earth—?” 

Hilary answered shortly, with a vivid remem- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


443 

brance of her recent conversation with Joyce, “My 
mother doesn’t care for it.” 

“I’d like you to see Stonewood—our house in 
Gloucestershire. It’s right away on the Cotswolds, 
miles from anywhere. We have our own chapel in 
the house and there’s a church only two miles away. 
My father’s very devout. He spent a great deal 
on the chapel. It’s rather wonderful—you’d love 
it.” 

“I’m sure I should,” said Hilary. 

She had an almost aching desire to go to Eng¬ 
land, to see Stonewood, to learn something of Eng¬ 
lish life. All of a sudden she felt that she had been 
unjustly deprived of something to which she had a 
right. For after all she was English, and there 
was no earthly reason why she should live always 
in exile. People were invariably surprised to find 
that she had never been in England, and now there 
was an additional sting in the thought that unpleas¬ 
ant reasons had been suggested to account for it, by 
malicious tongues. She wished her mother would go 
there even if it were only to silence those lying 
reports. 

Before she left that afternoon Kenneth had man¬ 
aged to say to her with an eagerness he did not try 
to conceal: 

“Where do you live? May I come and see you?” 

“Oh, do come—we shall be delighted. Come to 
tea. Our house is just above the town—you go up 
a steep path as if you were going to the church.” 

“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been inside the 
church since I came. It’s a long way isn’t it?” 

“I’ll show you the way when you come to see us. 
Our house stands on the left—we call it Villa Viola 
after my mother.” 

“Which day may I come?” 

“To-morrow, if that suits you,” said Hilary, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


444 

gravely. “I’m sure my mother will like to talk 
about Ceylon to you.” 

“Is your mother at all like you?” 

Hilary gave a delicious little laugh. “Oh, no-— 
she’s very beautiful. Ask Mrs. Meade.” 

He glanced at her sharply then as if to discover 
whether she were “fishing.” But her fresh young 
face was suffused with a kind of rapture of enthu¬ 
siasm, very authentic and charming. 

“You must be devoted to her,” he said, almost 
enviously. 

“Of course I am. You see, we’re alone, she 
and I. We’re like sisters.” 

He had an odd longing to know more of Hilary 
Mansfield. Mrs. Meade would perhaps be able to 
tell him something, since the two girls seemed to be 
on fairly intimate terms. He was not as a rule at 
all susceptible, but he was compelled to acknowledge 
to himself that Hilary had made a certain and very 
definite impression upon him. Of course it didn’t 
mean anything. He would probably go away in a 
week or two and forget all about her. Yet for the 
first time in his life he felt that he could be friends 
with a woman. Hilary seemed to him so sane, so 
poised, so normal. He contrasted her aspect of 
blooming healthy youth with the haggard neurotic 
beauty of his stepmother. 

Neither Mrs. Meade nor Joyce were too well 
pleased to learn that an invitation to tea at Villa 
Viola had been accepted by Kenneth for the follow¬ 
ing afternoon. Mrs. Meade had been at school 
with Kenneth’s stepmother, and had used this an¬ 
cient intimacy as a pretext for inviting the young 
man to Italy. He was the only son of Sir Garth 
Bennet, whom the press was wont to allude to as a 
“Rubber King.” It was certain that he had made a 
vast fortune, selling his estate at a moment when 
the commodity was fetching very high prices in the 


VIOLA HUDSON 


44 5 

market. And as his second wife had only presented 
him with two rather sickly little girls it was quite 
possible that Kenneth would in due course inherit 
the whole of his father’s wealth. Mrs. Meade had 
sincerely hoped that this highly eligible young man 
would take a fancy to Joyce, who was growing 
more and more difficult to please. That he was a 
Catholic did not disturb her in the least, for she 
held the comfortable conviction that one religion 
was as good as another when professed by a rich 
man. 

But in the few days of his visit no progress had 
been toward the fulfilment of these anxious maternal 
hopes. The things of the intellect meant much to 
Kenneth and he found it difficult to talk to Joyce, to 
whom they meant little or nothing. Joyce was 
piqued at his lack of appreciation of her charms. 
Their wealth made no impression upon him, for he 
possessed that in his own home and accepted it as 
a matter of course. In truth he was bored at finding 
himself in such a completely worldly milieu. The 
Meades brought with them to Italy the atmosphere 
of an English country house where the wealth was 
a little too new. He might as well have been in 
England, he told himself, except for that divine view 
of the lake and for the slight difference in the food. 
The Meades found Italian dishes “amusing,” and 
besides they were becoming fashionable; it would be 
chic to give them to their friends in London later on. 
To complete the illusion there was a newish English 
church in the neighborhood, to which of course Ken¬ 
neth did not go, but the Meades liked to convey 
their hordes of smart friends thither on Sundays. 
They sometimes filled half the available pews, to the 
disgust of the more democratic tourists from the 
hotels. 

“It was a mistake asking Hilary,” remarked 
Joyce, in confidence to her mother that evening. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


44 6 

“She simply monopolized Kenneth. I’ve never 
known her freeze on to anyone like that before. 
But one wouldn’t have thought either that that 
dairy-maid type v/ould have attracted him.” 

She was fond of her mother, and although they 
sometimes squabbled in a manner that rather 
shocked Hilary when she had been an unwilling wit¬ 
ness of it, they were never really estranged. Funda¬ 
mentally they cared for the same things; their out¬ 
look was frankly materialistic; they despised people 
whose views differed from their own. 

“I hinted that he had better not rush into an 
intimacy that he might afterward regret,” said Mrs. 
Meade, in her smooth pleasant voice that was never 
so pleasant as when she was uttering a malicious 
speech. She had not liked to see her guest detached 
in this way. “I told him that although Hilary was 
a charming girl we really knew very little indeed 
about them. Of course we all like and appreciate 
poor dear Mrs. Mansfield, but there always remains 
the uncomfortable, fact that she did live apart from 
her husband for many years before his death. Oh, 
I have always heard that from people who knew 
her in Ceylon when Hilary was quite a baby.” 

She made these damaging statements with an airy 
malice. But seeing Kenneth so quietly and skilfully 
detached from Joyce, she felt that the moment for 
crossing swords had indubitably arrived. 

“I hope you damped his ardor,” said Joyce. 
“After all, he’s our guest and I rather hate people 
to take up violently with one’s neighbors when 
they’re staying here.” 

“It isn’t exactly tactful,” agreed Mrs. Meade, 
“but Kenneth is still very young—and I believe his 
father has brought him up in a queer Catholic sort 
of way—he’s become almost a fanatic, I’m told. 
I’m sure, however, the Mansfields will bore Ken- 


VIOLA HUDSON 


447 

neth very soon—it will put him off only to see that 
depressing little house.” 

Mrs. Meade sincerely believed that poverty even 
in its most modified forms must be repulsive to a 
young and wealthy man. 

“I’m afraid he’s a prig,” said Joyce, regretfully; 
“he’s sure to go trotting all over the place sight¬ 
seeing with Hilary. Looking at moldy churches 
and picking up all the information he can! These 
Catholics always stick together.” She sighed. 

“Oh, he’ll soon get tired of that high-brow busi¬ 
ness,” Mrs. Meade hastened to assure her daughter. 
“But I’ve learnt my lesson—I shall never ask Hilary 
here again when there s any specially eligible young 
man. If you had only taken my advice and married 
Lord Bexley,” she added, recurring to an ancient 
grievance, “we should never have had this annoy¬ 
ance !” 

Joyce pursed up her mouth and an angry flash 
came into her eyes. 

“I couldn’t marry a man without a chin,” she said, 
with decision, “and of all the men we’ve had here 
this year Kenneth is far the best-looking and the 
richest. I’m disgusted with Hilary.” 

Mrs. Meade secretly admired her daughter’s 
spirit. She brought such a cool head and heart to 
all her numerous love-affairs. She reflected too that 
it wouldn’t be so difficult for Joyce to retaliate, since 
there was every evidence of a sinister secret shadow¬ 
ing the lives of the mother and daughter at Villa 
Viola. . . . 

The same idea had occurred to Joyce, for she 
added after a moment’s pause: “A girl who doesn’t 
know anything about her own father! Why, he 
may have been a convict for all we know!” 

“Oh, my dear child, indeed I hope not!” cried 
Mrs. Meade, genuinely alarmed at the suggestion. 
“It would be dreadful to think we had had her here 


448 VIOLA HUDSON 

so often and introduced her to so many of our 
friends.” 


CHAPTER IV 

C ONTRARY to Mrs. Meade’s prognostications 
Kenneth’s first visit to the Villa Viola only con¬ 
firmed him in the admiration he had begun to feel 
for Hilary. It was so charming too, he thought, to 
see the mother and daughter together. Hilary was 
affectionate and protective in her attitude, almost 
as if she were the one to shield. It was interesting 
too to see the difference which even so brief an in¬ 
tervening generation could produce in character and 
outlook, for Hilary possessed all the symptoms of 
that strong and vigorous independence that women 
were just then beginning so fearlessly to display. 
But there was no mere pose of affection and sym¬ 
pathy such as he had sometimes seen between 
mother and daughter and which he had recognized 
as a subtle form of allurement. It was a frank and 
loving comradeship, with just a touch of worship on 
the girl’s part. And he felt that it would not be 
difficult to worship Mrs. Mansfield. She was in¬ 
deed so beautiful that he could scarcely take his 
eyes from her, and he found it hard to realize that 
she was the mother of this bright-haired young god¬ 
dess. Hilary was, as he soon discovered, the 
stronger character of the two, more resolute, more 
fearless. She was the mainspring of the little 
menage. She didn’t lean upon or cling to her 
mother, for all that charming touch of adoration. 
On the contrary, she seemed to be holding out 
strong young arms to this lovely woman with the 
sad, beautiful eyes. 

There was no poverty in the villa, but there was 
certainly that touch of not unpleasant austerity 
which he had come to associate with the houses of 


VIOLA HUDSON 


449 

devout Catholics, as if to them alms-giving were a 
more important thing in life than luxury. His 
father often denied himself necessities for a like 
reason—since his conversion indeed he had become 
slightly austere in the matter of personal comfort. 
Kenneth had even remonstrated with him on the 
subject, but now that he recognized the same spirit 
at Villa Viola, he began to think it attractive, espe¬ 
cially after the suffocating luxury of the Meades’ 
house. 

Hilary was quite right, he decided—Her mother 
was beautiful in a sense that she herself had missed. 
Mrs. Mansfield’s beauty was an exquisite, finished 
thing of perfect line and dark soft coloring. But 
he thought that even so, Hilary possessed some¬ 
thing in place of it that was even more worth while. 
She didn’t somehow lose by the contrast. She was 
quick and vigorous with young life, like a wild spring 
flower that mocks at the gales and storms and gains 
part of its very freshness and fragrance and 
strength from them. 

As he watched her, he thought: “I believe I must 
be falling in love. It would be terrible to think 
when I go away that I should never see her 
again. . . .” 

Viola was undergoing a strange torment that 
made her very quiet and silent. She would have 
prevented his visit had it been possible to do so. 
But short of confessing to Hilary that she did not 
wish to meet Kenneth because she had once known 
his father, it was not possible. And had she not 
always felt and believed that one day the two parts 
of her life would join and leave either a seam or a 
scar? To plead a headache—she who never had 
headaches!—and remain in her room seemed to her 
a cowardly shirking of the situation. Hilary had re¬ 
turned on the preceding evening rather full of her 
new friend. But the name of Bennet with its 


VIOLA HUDSON 


450 

Ceylon associations had struck with a painful famil¬ 
iarity upon Viola’s ear, and the addition of Kenneth 
left no reasonable room for doubt as to his identity. 
This was Garth’s son, for whose sake he had tried 
to induce Viola to leave Hilary. When she saw 
Kenneth all possibility of doubt vanished. The boy 
had an extraordinary look of his father. Less tall 
and perhaps somewhat less handsome, he had the 
same candid dark eyes, the same grave look and 
quiet manner of speaking. When Viola saw him 
standing side by side with Hilary, she thought in¬ 
voluntarily: “They ought never to have met.” 

Garth Bennet was the only person outside her 
immediate family who knew the details of her 
story. More, he was the only person in the whole 
world who was aware of the identity of Hilary’s 
father. The thought stabbed her like a knife. 
She could recall his words now: “I must think of 
Kenneth. . . .” 

And now despite all those ancient precautions fate 
had brought the boy and girl together in this little 
lakeside town, and here was Hilary talking in a gay 
animated way that was almost new to her mother, 
just as if Kenneth had struck a chord in her nature 
that had never before been touched. Hilary was 
often shy and reserved with strangers, speaking 
little but listening thoughtfully. Viola felt that 
fate could hardly have offered to her gaze a more 
malicious complication than this sudden swift and 
inexplicable friendship that had sprung up between 
her daughter and Garth’s son. It was a coinci¬ 
dence so unlikely, so on the face of it remote, that 
it was almost melodramatic. Sooner or later too 
Kenneth would be certain to begin to speak of Cey¬ 
lon, and Viola would have to reveal the fact that 
the estates of Madura and Kellioya had actually 
joined, and that in those old days she had known 
his father. 


VIOLA HUDSON 45 i 

Viola had often felt that some tremendous crisis 
would eventually precipitate her own confession to 
Hilary. Was that crisis approaching now, camou¬ 
flaged perhaps by the first dawning of love in her 
daughter’s heart? Hilary’s pleasure in her new 
friend was quite frank and unconcealed; there was 
nothing to suggest the first awakening within her of 
a secret and more intimate tenderness. 

“Do tell Mummie about your father’s conver¬ 
sion,” Hilary startled her by saying. “It’s such a 
perfect little story—I didn’t tell her on purpose that 
you might.” 

“Oh, if you’d care to hear,” said Kenneth, hesi¬ 
tating. “It happened in Ceylon, where you know 
he spent some years. There was someone out there 
—a woman—he said she was one of the greatest 
saints he’d ever known. They were together when 
a young planter died, and she made him pray when 
he was dying. It made a great impression on my 
father, and he became a Catholic just before he 
married my stepmother. Would you like to know 
her prayer? It was: Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, 
I trust in Thee.” 

Viola sat there very still; her slender hands 
clasped upon her lap. She was back in memory in 
the little bungalow down by the Kelli-Oya where 
Hartley Brett had died. The murmur of the river 
sounded in her ears, like the voice of many waters. 
And there, by her side, all unknown to her, the first 
seeds of a conversion were by the grace of the Holy 
Spirit being sown in another’s soul. 

And Garth had called her one of the greatest 
saints he had ever known. The thought came back 
to her with a kind of reluctant joy. So during the 
years that had intervened since their separation he 
had learned to condone the past, to realize perhaps 
her suffering, her long reparation. . . . 

It was obvious that he had never mentioned her 


VIOLA HUDSON 


452 

name to his son. Kenneth was ignorant of the part 
she had played in his life. 

“Don’t you ever come to England, Mrs. Mans¬ 
field? If you do I should love you to bring your 
daughter to Stonewood. And I know my father 
would be delighted. He’s always pleased if I bring 
Catholic friends to the house,” he added, simply. 

“No—we never go to England. I prefer to re¬ 
main here,” said Viola, coldly. 

A trickle of malice from some of Mrs. Meade’s 
speeches concerning their utter ignorance of Mrs. 
Mansfield’s past life, seemed to cast a little dark 
smudge upon his mind. Was it possible that there 
could be any truth in her insinuations? Was it pos¬ 
sible that there could be anything wrong? Their 
lives to outward seeming were so fair and 
limpid. . . . He looked from one to the other, al¬ 
most with anguish. Then he breathed a sigh of re¬ 
lief. Of course Mrs. Mansfield must have been 
what is technically known as the “innocent party,” 
since she had had the custody of her child. There 
was immense consolation in the thought. Neverthe¬ 
less he longed to know the right and wrong of the 
story. Perhaps his father would be able to throw 
some light upon it. . . . 

“I wish we could go,” said Hilary, wistfully. 

“I can’t imagine anyone staying away from Eng¬ 
land for any length of time,” said Kenneth. 

“I feel English all the same,” said Hilary. 

“Did you ever meet my father in Ceylon, Mrs. 
Mansfield?” 

“Yes—I remember meeting him with Mr. Keane. 
Your father is Sir Garth Bennet, isn’t he?” Viola’s 
tone was cold. 

“Oh, you knew Mr. Keane too? David stays 
with us sometimes when he goes home. He manages 
my father’s old estate Madura for the company 
who bought it. Mr. Keane lives at Madura now 


VIOLA HUDSON 


453 

with David, and the second son manages Kuduwatte. 
I want to go out and pay them a visit next year.” 

Viola listened. Her face was very pale, but she 
showed no sign of emotion. 

“I must tell Dad,” continued Kenneth, “he’ll be 
awfully interested. He told me once that some of 
his happiest days had been spent in Ceylon.” 

“His wife had been dead a year or two when I 
first knew him,” Viola said, quietly. “And I re¬ 
member he used to speak of his son. . . . That was 
you—” she smiled at Kenneth. 

“He was devoted to my mother,” said Kenneth, 
“and sometimes I think he isn’t very happy now. 
My stepmother is delicate and nervous, and the two 
little girls are often ill too. But we stick together 
a lot—Dad and I.” 

When he got up to go he asked timidly if he 
might come again. 

“Whenever you like,” said Viola, smiling. 

“Oh, may I really come in to-morrow?” 

And it was Hilary who answered: “Of course 
you may!” 

When he had gone she turned eagerly to her 
mother and said: “Isn’t he a dear? You did like 
him, didn’t you, Mummie?” 

“Yes.” 

“How odd that you should have known his 
father!” 

“Madura was so near—the next estate.” 

“Did you like Sir Garth?” 

“Yes.” 

“Mummie, if they ask us to Stonewood do say 
you’ll go!” 

“No, darling.” 

Hilary’s face fell. There was something almost 
unreasonable to her about her mother’s obstinacy 
on this point. Surely Kenneth must also have found 


" 4 S 4 VIOLA HUDSON 

it a little strange. She came closer and took Viola’s 
hand. 

“Mummie, you’re being mysterious with your 
only child! Has the reason got anything to do with 
my . . . my father?” 

Viola drew her hand away; it was as if she shrank 
then from Hilary’s frank young gaze, that warm 
loving contact. 

“Don’t ask me so many questions, darling.” She 
looked at her appealingly. 

“What a beast I am!” said Hilary, springing up 
and shaking herself rather after the manner of a 
big dog. “I’m always hurting you. You ought to 
tell me that I’m horrible!” She was angry with 
herself. 

“No—no. It’s only natural that you should be 
curious.” 

“Not if it hurts you,” said Hilary. “Only, we 
oughtn’t to have secrets from each other. Why, 
if something hurts you I’d rather share your pain. 
I’d rather suffer with you than be left out in the 
cold.” She leaned over her mother and put her 
face against hers. The dark and fair hair mingled. 
Her loving words comforted Viola. They gave her 
hope for the future. 

“Oh, no, Hilary. Why should you suffer? 
You’re so young. You’d double my pain instead of 
sharing it.” Viola freed herself, and her eyes had 
a look that was almost wild. Her courage was 
ebbing. “Hil, darling, please leave me.” 

Hilary gave her a parting kiss, and now thor¬ 
oughly sobered went out of the room. 

This coming of Kenneth would surely precipitate 
the crisis. Through long years Viola had dreaded 
the approach of this moment. And as it came 
nearer now she thought of the old hideous torture 
when victims were pressed to death. The great 
stone descended very slowly upon the prostrate and 


VIOLA HUDSON 455 

bound form beneath it, watched ever by the eyes 
that dared not close but gazed upon it with a truly 
fearful fascination. 

This evening she could almost feel the chill, heavy 
stone touching her forehead. Yet Hilary’s words 
echoed in her ears, bringing a kind of forlorn com¬ 
fort. “Why, if something hurts you, I’d rather 
share your pain. I’d rather suffer with you than 
be left out in the cold.” 

Hilary, when she knew all, would surely under¬ 
stand and forgive. . . . 


CHAPTER V 

D AY after day of that perfect spring weather 
Kenneth excused himself and fled from the 
sophisticated luxury of the Villa Glicine to the 
charming little pink house standing amid the vines 
and cypresses on the slopes above the town. He 
was never tired of exploring the places in the neigh¬ 
borhood in Hilary’s company, or of rowing on the 
lake with her, or of sitting as evening approached in 
the vine-wreathed loggia with its view of the lake 
glinting between boughs of pine and cypress. He 
liked to watch the snow-fields on the Alps turning 
to gold and flame in the sunset, and then fading to 
a cold violet until night folded them in her ebony 
garments. He liked to see the lights of Bellagio 
pricking the darkness and casting those tremulous 
floating reflections in the black water. And most 
of all he liked to know that Hilary was sitting there 
watching these things with him, and to listen to the 
cool even tones of her voice. 

Viola made no effort to interfere. She felt that 
it would have been cowardly to take her daughter 
away from the neighborhood until danger had 
passed and Kenneth had returned to England. And 


VIOLA HUDSON 


456 

almost always, as far as Kenneth was concerned, 
such a precaution would have come too late. He 
had begun to tell himself that he, the least suscep¬ 
tible of young men, had fallen in love with Hilary 
Mansfield at first sight. Already too he loved her 
mother. Teased at first by the hint of mystery, he 
now thought it only added a touch of romance to 
the beautiful strange woman who was Hilary’s 
mother. 

He was obviously so happy, that Mrs. Meade 
and Joyce let him go without any further hint of 
disapproval. If his visit had not been a success in 
the way they had planned, it had certainly been a 
source of considerable enjoyment to him, and he 
must always look back upon it with a sense of grati¬ 
tude toward them. The prick of Joyce’s pride had 
been assuaged by the arrival of another man, a 
good deal older than herself, with an unexception¬ 
able rent-roll. He was evidently one who would 
“stand no nonsense,” and was bent on taming the 
pretty little shrew in his own way. Mrs. Meade 
was astonished at the effect of these primeval tactics 
upon her modern little daughter. She did not seem 
to resent the process in the least. “She will cer¬ 
tainly be a countess before the end of the year,” 
thought Mrs. Meade. It consoled her for the de¬ 
fection of Kenneth. 

Her complacency contrasted curiously with the 
anguish with which Viola was just then regarding 
her own daughter. She believed that the truth 
could not long be withheld from Hilary when Ken¬ 
neth had once taken the step of writing to tell his 
father he had met the Mansfields in Italy. Garth 
would not be slow to recognize their identity. And 
surely he would step in and try to prevent his son 
from making what must be in his eyes a disastrous 
marriage. Kenneth might even leave Italy without 
speaking to Hilary of his love. . . . 


VIOLA HUDSON 


457 

Viola watched them with an almost fatalistic re¬ 
solve to let things take their own course without 
any intervention from herself. She was quite sure 
that whatever happened she would never lose her 
daughter’s love. If the blow fell it would fall upon 
them both and they would bear it together. Her 
child was no weakling; she would bear the impact 
stoically. 

But so far Viola didn’t think that Hilary was in 
love with Kenneth. She was enjoying his compan¬ 
ionship openly and frankly, and for the first time 
in her life she had found a sympathetic comrade 
of her own religion and almost of her own age. 
She seemed wholly unaware too that his own feel¬ 
ing for her was rapidly assuming tormenting propor¬ 
tions. He loved her, and from day to day he put 
off writing that letter to his father to tell him that 
he had met the woman he wished to marry. He 
believed that it would be a relief to him to learn 
that he was going to marry a Catholic, and of 
course he would approve of Hilary—he. had only 
to see her! And then a cold doubt woud invade his 
heart like a great wave and he would say: “But per¬ 
haps she won’t marry me. Perhaps she doesn t 
care.” This thought made him shrink from writing 
to his father. 

Longing for greater independence he. left the 
Villa Glicine, and took a couple of rooms in a small 
hotel not far from the Villa Viola. He was free 
now to enjoy as much of Hilary s society as she 
chose to give him. Often he would wait for her in 
the road soon after dawn and climb up to the church 
with her for the first Mass. It was all so perfect 
at that early hour—the church very still and silent 
while the priest offered the. Holy Sacrifice; the few 
kneeling peasants who with himself and Hilary 
formed the congregation; the coming out into the 
fresh chill morning air to see the lake lying beneath 


VIOLA HUDSON 


458 

them like a sheet of silver with the reflections in it 
looking like arabesques of gray velvet. But always 
the best moment of all was when he found himself 
kneeling near Hilary, stealing furtive glances at her 
bent head, her calm “recollected” face, her glowing 
eyes. Yes, her faith meant a great deal to her. 
She would help him, when the time came, to carry 
on the work inaugurated by his father at Stonewood. 
He was always very silent when they walked down 
the hill together after Mass with all the sweet 
fragrances of the Spring breathing in the air about 
them. He felt as if he had emerged from a holy 
consecrated hour that had in some sense blessed his 
love. . . . 

He came into the loggia one morning to find 
Viola sitting there alone. He had been rather wait¬ 
ing for an opportunity to speak to her about Hilary, 
but now that it had come he felt a sudden, new shy¬ 
ness. 

“Hilary has gone to the post. She’ll be back 
very soon,” said Viola, looking up from her work 
and smiling as she took Kenneth’s outstretched hand. 

He stood there irresolutely, gazing down at the 
lake across the terraced vine-clad slopes. Just be¬ 
low him was a wonderful thicket of glowing crimson 
rhododendrons that made a vivid patch of color 
against the blue water. The flower-beds were full 
of bright-hued cinerarias, blue, pink, and magenta- 
colored. Some tulips lifted ruby chalices to the in¬ 
vading bees, and there was a mingled fragrance of 
violets and narcissi. 

The lake was turquoise-hued and very calm, with 
gray shadows that deepened to violet near the shore. 
There was a fresh cold feeling in the air that had 
strayed down from Alpine snow-fields. 

Always, Kenneth felt, he would think of Spring 
and Hilary when he thought or spoke of Italy. It 
would mean just that to him as long as he lived. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


459 

At that moment he felt wonderfully, passionately 
alive. With a burst of courage he turned to Viola. 

“I’m so glad to find you alone, Mrs. Mansfield. 
I’ve wanted to speak to you. About Hilary—you 
must have seen . . .” 

When he thus uttered her name aloud for the 
first time in Viola's presence he thought that it held 
the most perfect music. Hilary . . . 

“About Hilary?” 

“Yes. I have fallen in love with her. I’ve made 
up my mind to ask her to marry me. But you—” 
and now he looked searchingly at the exquisite face 
of Hilary’s mother—“you wouldn’t think anyone 
quite good enough for her, I suppose?” 

“I think the practical question is whether your 
father would think her good enough for you,” said 
Viola, in a cold withdrawn tone. 

“Oh, Dad’ll just love her directly he sees her,” 
said Kenneth, confidently. “And he’s always 
wanted me to marry a Catholic.” 

The look in his shining enthusiastic eyes hurt her. 

“Anyone would love her! . . . I’m lucky to be 
about the first to see her. You—you wouldn’t be 
against it, would you?” 

“I shouldn’t be against anything that meant hap¬ 
piness for Hilary,” she said, evasively. 

“I know I could make her happy. The only thing 
is I’m afraid she doesn’t care for me—not in that 
way at least. She’s awfully charming to me and all 
that—” He stopped. “I don’t believe she even 
guesses.” 

“You are very young,” said Viola, suddenly pity¬ 
ing him. “It would be much wiser for you to go 
away and forget her.” 

“Forget her? Forget Hilary? But, my dear 
Mrs. Mansfield—!” His eyes were wide open with 
astonishment. Did she really believe such a thing 
was possible? 


46o VIOLA HUDSON 

“At least go away. Wait a little while. Make 
quite sure. And ask your father’s advice—and per¬ 
mission. . . .” The sentences dropped almost me¬ 
chanically from her lips. 

He pondered over this advice. Then he shook 
his head. “No, I can’t wait. I must find out just 
where I stand. All these days I’ve felt as if I were 
hiding something from her. She—she’s so won¬ 
derful, isn’t she?” 

“I’m quite sure Hilary has no idea of marrying 
at present.” 

“But if I can make her care for me? Oh, I know 
she likes me and all that I” 

“Yes, yes, I’m sure she does.” 

“I’ve been meaning to write and tell Dad about 
you and Hilary, but the weeks have simply slipped 
past—there hasn’t been time—and I suppose I 
shirked it. I’ve got into the habit of sending him 
postcards. Did he ever see Hilary when she was a 
little girl?” 

“Yes. When she was two or three years old.” 

She could see the Colombo garden with all its 
gay brilliant emerald verdure, the scarlet hibiscus 
flowers, the golden allamandas, the bronze polished 
leaves of the crotons; the blue sky and sea and 
waving palms. Hilary was on her knee, and sud¬ 
denly there was Garth’s voice saying: “So it was 
Esme?” . . . 

The suspended stone seemed to come appreciably 
nearer to the waiting, helpless victim lying in dread¬ 
ful anticipation beneath it. . . . 

Kenneth was silent. Certainly Mrs. Mansfield 
was not encouraging. Perhaps after all she was 
selfish and didn’t want Hilary to marry and leave 
her alone. And then too her manner seemed to sug¬ 
gest that his father would disapprove of the mar¬ 
riage. 

Suddenly Viola rose and went up to him. She 


VIOLA HUDSON 461 

stood by his side and her eyes gazed down upon 
the blue waters of the lake. 

“Kenneth,” she said, calling him by his name for 
the first time, though often she had felt as if she 
had a right to do so. “When you tell your father 
about Hilary will you tell him too that I—I quite 
foresaw he might possibly offer some objection? 
Say I felt that he might disapprove and therefore I 
urged you to go away—to try to forget her.” Her 
tone was pleading. 

.His heart sank. She seemed to be destroying his 
bright hopes. 

“Is there any special reason why he should ob¬ 
ject?” he asked, and his throat was so dry he could 
scarcely utter the words. 

“Yes,” said Viola. 

“Does Hilary know of this reason?” 

“No—she knows nothing.” 

“Won’t you tell me?” 

She shook her head. “If your father thinks it 
necessary—absolutely necessary—for you to know, 
I think he will tell you himself. It would be kind 
of you not to let it come to that. . . .” 

“I’m sorry, but it must come to that,” said Ken¬ 
neth, resolutely. His young face hardened. He 
looked very like Garth at that moment. “It’s some¬ 
thing then that he knows?” 

“Yes.” 

He felt as if he were groping in a darkness that 
had suddenly become sinister. A dull bewilder¬ 
ment of pain mastered him. 

“I don’t want to know! I want—Hilary!” 

He threw himself into a chair and covered his 
face with his hands, as if to shut out the golden 
sunshine that seemed like a mockery. The very 
beauty of the scene, the blue lake, the crimson 
rhododendrons, the bright flowers, had become 
fantastic in his eyes. Reserved and self-controlled 


VIOLA HUDSON 


462 

as he was both by nature and upbringing, this col¬ 
lapse was in itself significant. 

“If you would only take my advice and wait,” 
she said, very quietly, “it would be better for every¬ 
one. Hilary is, I am certain, unconscious of your 
love. If you told her it might awaken her. And 
I don’t want that to happen until you are quite sure 
you will be allowed to marry her.” 

He brushed his hand across his eyes with a violent 
gesture. 

“Mrs. Mansfield—I don’t understand. Didn’t 
you like Dad? Were you—enemies?” Mrs. 
Meade’s malicious innuendoes came back to him 
like a flock of evil preying birds. 

“No. To a certain extent—up to a certain point 
—we were friends.” 

At that moment Hilary appeared, climbing up the 
path from the gate. She looked one with the bright 
Spring morning. Her face was glowing from her 
rapid walk in that chill strong air; there was a bril¬ 
liant color in her cheeks and her eyes were shining. 
When she first appeared she was smiling, glad to 
find Kenneth already there, eager to learn w r hat he 
had planned for the day. But her expression 
changed as her eyes fell upon him, sitting there in 
that despondent attitude, his face grave and gloomy, 
his eyes heavy and despondent. He got up and 
came toward her without speaking. 

“Why, Kenneth, what’s the matter?” 

“I—I’ve been talking to your mother, Hil.” 

“What’s Mummie been saying to plunge you into 
such depths of gloom?” inquired Hilary, cheerfully. 
It was absurd, but something of Kenneth’s misery 
seemed to communicate itself to her, and a curious 
alarm took possession of her. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” she cried. “Has any¬ 
thing happened? Have you had bad news, Ken¬ 
neth?” 


VIOLA HUDSON 463 

“I have been giving Kenneth good advice,” said 
Viola, “I only hope he will follow it.” 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything. I 
think I’ll go away. I won’t stay to lunch. . . .” 
He moved toward the salotto and Hilary followed 
him. 

“Nonsense! Of course you’re going to stay!” 
Her voice was emphatic. “Whatever Mummie 
may have said I’m sure she never told you to fly 
off like that.” 

Viola followed them into the sitting-room. Hil¬ 
ary looked from one to the other with a kind of dis¬ 
may. What on earth did it mean—what had her 
mother been saying to him? 

Kenneth’s haggard face frightened her. 

When he went across the room and into the hall 
beyond, Hilary accompanied him. Perhaps when 
she was alone with him he would tell her what had 
passed. He had opened the front door and she 
almost believed that he intended to go without a 
word of farewell. Timidly—for this was a new 
and strange Kenneth—she touched his sleeve. 

“What is it, Ken? Do tell me!” she said. 

The touch broke down his difficult self-control. 
For all answer he took her in his arms and kissed 
her almost with violence. She tried to break free, 
but he held her as in a vise. 

“I love you,” he said, “that’s what it is. I want 
you to be my wife. I can’t give you up for any 
reason in the world.” 

“Let me go,” said Hilary, passionately. 

He released her. She looked dazed and troubled. 
All her indignation had dropped from her. Ken¬ 
neth loved her—and did her mother wish for any 
reason to prevent their marriage? Instinctively she 
put out her hands and held Kenneth’s. This time 
her touch soothed and quieted him. There was 
promise in it. It gave him hope. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


464 

“I’m sorry, darling. Forgive me. . . . Hilary— 
be on my side. Don’t let them separate us. Do 
you love me?” 

Hilary looked at him. Perhaps she would not so 
readily have envisaged her own attitude toward 
him had there not been in that wonderful moment 
of revelation the threat of separation. It taught 
her beyond all doubt that she loved him. 

“Yes,” she said simply. 


CHAPTER VI 

I T WAS about this time that Sir Garth Bennet 
received a somewhat disturbing letter from 
Mrs. Meade. 

She considered it her duty, she wrote, to let him 
know that his son was becoming seriously entangled 
with some neighbors of theirs—a mother and 
daughter of the name of Mansfield. Ten days ago 
he had left the Villa Glicine and had taken rooms at 
a small hotel quite near the Mansfields’ villino. 
They were charming people, and Kenneth had origi¬ 
nally met Hilary—that was the girl’s name—at 
Villa Glicine, but they really knew very little about 
them. Mrs. Mansfield though still a comparatively 
young woman was quite a recluse, never going any¬ 
where, and they could not help suspecting that there 
was some sad as well as disastrous story to account 
for her complete withdrawal. It was evident, the 
letter went on, that Kenneth was very much in love 
with Hilary; they were always out together, taking 
long walks, rowing on the lake, attending Mass, 
and visiting churches in the neighborhood. Mrs. 
Meade had felt it had become necessary to warn 
Sir Garth, because he would certainly wish to know 
much more about his son’s future wife than she or 
anyone else knew about Hilary Mansfield. But as 


VIOLA HUDSON 


465 

they had been in Ceylon many years ago he would 
probably remember them, and might even be able 
to throw some light upon the story. 

Sir Garth had thought little of the paucity and 
infrequency of his son’s communications during his 
visit to Italy. He was not an exacting parent, and 
he wanted the boy to enjoy his holiday. But Mrs. 
Meade’s letter showed him beyond doubt that there 
had been a reason for Kenneth’s laconic post-cards. 

Hilary Mansfield, living alone with her mother! 
Some sad and disastrous story to account for this 
complete withdrawal. . . . Mrs. Meade’s phrases 
hit the mark with a more forceful and definite pre¬ 
cision than her wildest imaginings had ever pictured. 
Remember them? Sir Garth remembered them 
only too well, and as he read the letter that last 
poignant scene when he had said good-by to Viola 
in the moonlight-flooded veranda at Colombo rose 
up before his mind. He seemed to see with a 
curious and agonizing accuracy her pale beautiful 
face with its cloud of dark hair, the quiet soft look 
in her eyes. He had told her plainly that in marry¬ 
ing him she must renounce Hilary. He had his son 
to consider. ... He felt that fate in bringing their 
two children together after all these long years had 
dealt him a stealthy stab in the back. . . . 

He had never been really happy in his second mar¬ 
riage. He had been rather pushed into it by his 
own people, who assured him that his boy needed a 
woman’s care. But the second Lady Bennet had 
never shown the slightest affection for Kenneth; 
She was far too much wrapped up In her own ail¬ 
ments and in the health of her two ailing little girls. 
Nor had the boy ever cared for her. He adored 
his father, and to Garth he was the one thing in 
the world he really loved. All his hopes were 
bound up in this, his only son. And never before 
had Kenneth either kept anything a secret from 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 66 

him or given him the slightest ground for anxiety. 
He was a good Catholic, upright, sincere, straight¬ 
forward. He was indeed all that Sir Garth had 
so ardently wished his son to be. 

And in his heart he knew that he had made one 
very great sacrifice for him. It was for Kenneth’s 
sake he had not married Viola. His conditions had 
proved too hard for her. . . . And he had not seen 
his way to changing them. 

Sir Garth followed his first impulse and made 
immediate preparations for a journey to the Lake 
of Como. It was a part of the world he had not 
visited for many years. He did not warn his son 
of his advent. There would be a certain difficulty 
about doing that. That he should probably see 
Viola again at the end of his journey gave him an 
odd sensation that he could only describe as a shrink¬ 
ing of the heart. He knew that he could not see 
her again, however altered she might be, without 
emotion. She was the one woman who had spelt 
romance for him. She had come into his life across 
his own extreme desolation and given him hope and 
consolation. And she had been the human instru¬ 
ment through whom the great gift of faith had come 
to him. She seemed to have changed the aspect of 
both heaven and earth for him, and he was pro¬ 
foundly grateful to her. It was all the more terrible 
that for the second time he would have to interpose 
and hurt her. For on one point his mind was abso¬ 
lutely made up. Kenneth was not to be permitted 
to marry Hilary. And when he learned the truth 
of that disastrous story, surely all wish to marry 
her would leave him. . . . 

Sir Garth traveled through to Italy without delay. 
He arrived about dinner-time at the hotel where 
Kenneth was staying. Mr. Bennet, he was told, 
had just come in and was having his dinner. In 


VIOLA HUDSON 467 

another moment the father and son were face to 
face. 

They graspedeach other’s hands, and a kind of 
sick relief came into Kenneth’s face at the sight of 
the father whom he loved so deeply. “Dad!” he 
said. Something in Garth’s look told him that he 
knew about Hilary, and Mrs. Mansfield’s words of 
implicit warning recurred to him with an almost sin¬ 
ister significance. . . . 

They ate their dinner almost in silence. As yet 
the hotel was not very full. The annual influx of 
British and American tourists had scarcely begun. 

At a round table in the middle of the room there 
was an Italian family, the father and mother and 
three children, all deeply engaged in the ceremony 
of eating. The little girls, daintily dressed and with 
big butterfly bows in their clipped hair, were charm¬ 
ing dark-eyed creatures. At another table sat a 
very British-looking figure clad in stout gray tweed. 
Her grizzled hair hung untidily above a plain but 
pleasant countenance. She had bowed slightly to 
Kenneth when she came into the room. 

After dinner Kenneth rose. “Shall we have coffee 
in the lounge, Dad?” he asked. 

Garth assented. He followed his son into a 
glazed loggia, full of palms and orange trees in 
big terra-cotta tubs, overlooking the lake. The 
night was fine and the stars showed brilliantly in a 
sky that was almost black. The father and son 
were alone together. A waiter brought them coffee 
and cigarettes. Garth felt a strange unwillingness 
to speak. He wished Kenneth would say something. 

His young face was haggard and miserable, but 
he did not look ill at ease or embarrassed at the 
sudden appearance of his father. 

He broke out at last: “I suppose you’ve come 
about Hilary, Dad.” 


VIOLA HUDSON 


468 

“Yes,” said Garth. “What has Mrs. Mansfield 
told you ?” 

“She only said that you wouldn’t approve. She 
asked me to go away—not to speak to Hilary. . . . 
But I couldn’t keep silence. I felt I must know 
where I stood. She loves me, Dad.” His voice, 
still constrained and cold, had now for the first time 
a slight tremor in it. “Mrs. Mansfield wrote and 
told me not to go there again until I had consulted 
you. That was four days ago. I haven’t seen Hil¬ 
ary since. She wouldn’t go against her mother, but 
I think she must be suffering too.” 

“You spoke to her?” said Garth. 

“Yes. She looked so beautiful, I couldn’t help 
myself,” Kenneth answered, simply. 

“What did she say to you?” 

“She does care. I’d always felt so uncertain— 
she’s very young, you know. But we’d been together 
a lot . . . they’d both been so kind to me. I left 
the Meades so that I might see more of Hilary.” 

“Did you think of any possible reason there might 
be for Mrs. Mansfield’s saying I should not ap¬ 
prove?” inquired Garth. 

Kenneth shook his head. “I thought it was a mis¬ 
taken idea of hers. Hilary’s a Catholic, and I knew 
you’d always hoped I should marry one. I meant 
to write to you . . . but I’ve felt so miserable-all 
these days. I wanted to tell you, Dad!” 

“I’m sure you did. But there are things you 
ought to know. And when you know them I hope 
you will see too how impossible this marriage would 
be for you. ...” 

Kenneth’s face was deadly pale. “What things?” 
he faltered. “No—don’t tell me! I’d rather not 
know. I don’t care what it is. I love Hilary . . . ” 

Then very quietly Garth revealed to his son the 
secret of Viola Mansfield’s life. There was no doubt 
that she had been very cruelly wronged, duped and 


VIOLA HUDSON 


469 

deceived into a sham marriage when she was still a 
very young inexperienced girl. But the grim fact 
remained, and she herself would be the last to mini¬ 
mize it. Hilary was not a legitimate child. 

“She might have married the man, but he made a 
stipulation that their child should be brought up a 
Protestant. His parents’ consent to the marriage 
depended upon this. She had to choose. It was a 
momentous decision for her to make, but it seemed 
that she did not hesitate. She preferred that her 
child, then unborn, should go through life with this 
stigma attached to her rather than deprive her of 
her faith.” 

Kenneth, who had listened in somber dejected 
silence to this recital, now lifted his head. 

“But that was simply splendid of her!” he said, 
and his eyes shone. “She looks capable of it, too. 
And if Hilary knew—it seems a queer thing to say— 
I believe she’d tell her she was right.” 

“Kenneth, you’re both very young. You’ve known 
each other such a very little while. The hurt to you 
both can only be a passing one. I want you to go 
home—to try to forget her. Not to see her again. 
The honor of our name is in your hands.” 

Kenneth set his teeth. “I don’t care about my 
name! I want Hilary.” 

He belonged to a younger generation that pos¬ 
sessed a wider outlook, less care for the past and 
its traditions, a determination to seize and enjoy the 
gifts that the present offered. Not to await a nebu¬ 
lous uncertain future ... 

“I love her. I don’t care for anything else in the 
world. I mean to marry her. If her father was a 
scoundrel her mother is a saint! Why should Hilary 
suffer because of her father? Who was he? Did 
you know him?” 

“Yes, I knew him.” 

“But no one knows anything of Mrs. Mansfield’s 


VIOLA HUDSON 


470 

story! How did you come to know? How did you 
hear?” He fixed his dark eyes challengingly upon 
his father’s face. 

“She told me about it herself,” said Garth, half- 
reluctantly. 

“Told you? Were you such friends, then?” 

“She told me on the day when I asked her to 
marry me.” For the first time in his life Garth 
alluded to that past event. “I thought—as every¬ 
one who knew her in Ceylon thought—that she was 
a married woman living apart from her husband. 
I asked her if there was no hope of her getting her 
marriage annulled. I knew she was a Catholic, and 
therefore I believed that she could not get a divorce 
and free herself. And I—I loved her. I felt she 
would be a beautiful mother to you.” 

“You loved her?” Kenneth stared at his father 
in bewildered astonishment. “Why didn’t you marry 
her then when you found she was free?” 

“Because of Hilary. Rightly or wrongly, I felt 
I couldn’t have Hilary with us. But Mrs. Mansfield 
refused to give her up.” 

“But why did you want to separate them?” Ken¬ 
neth felt that his father’s condition had been both 
cruel and harsh. 

“It was on your account,” said Garth. “I made 
the sacrifice for you.” 

Kenneth was silent. He felt almost stupefied by 
these revelations. But he understood now better 
than before why his father was now urging him to 
make sacrifice of his own love. To put the earth and 
the wide seas between himself and Hilary. Never 
to see her again. He leaned forward and buried his 
face in his hands. 

“I can’t do it! I can’t do it.” His throat seemed 
to close on the words. 

“I shall go and see Mrs. Mansfield to-morrow 
morning, and discuss the matter with her,” said 


VIOLA HUDSON 


47 1 

Garth, rising. “I shall send up a note to-night to 
ask her if she will receive me. Good-night, Ken¬ 
neth.” 

He went out of the room. 

A gleam of hope came into the boy’s heart. 
“He’ll change his mind when he sees Hil,” he 
thought. 

Certain as he felt of Hilary’s love, he knew there 
was still another force against which he had to con¬ 
tend—Hilary’s love for her mother. She would in 
this crisis obey her implicitly. Everything depended 
upon the results of that crucial interview between 
his father and Mrs. Mansfield on the morrow. 
They would meet as old friends to discuss the vital 
problem of their children’s future. . . . 

He went out and walked along the lakeside till 
he came to the flagged path that led up to the Villa 
Viola. The light in Hilary’s room was still burn¬ 
ing. Perhaps even now she was kneeling there, 
praying. The thought sobered him. He felt the 
strength of Hilary, her essential goodness, her 
sweetness of disposition. The spiritual strength of 
her. In her young fair beauty, wholesome, innocent, 
unspoiled, she seemed just then so close to him . . . 

He went back to the hotel and up to his room in a 
happier, calmer frame of mind. 


CHAPTER VII 

V IOLA had no need to open Sir Garth’s note in 
order to ascertain the identity of the writer. 
Immediately she recognized that stiff, upright hand¬ 
writing. She read it through without emotion, and 
scribbled a hasty answer to say that she would 
receive him on the following morning at eleven 
o’clock. It was an hour when Hilary was almost 
always out. Later, if he wished, he could see her. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


472 

It had been a matter of surprise to Viola to dis¬ 
cover that Hilary undoubtedly reciprocated Ken¬ 
neth’s feeling for her. The moment of that ultimate 
crisis was now approaching, and Viola felt imbued 
with a strange, almost fierce courage. She was pre¬ 
pared to fight for her child’s happiness, to plead for 
the young couple. Since Kenneth had spoken to 
Hilary, disregarding all her earnest advice that 
he should await his father’s approval, matters had 
progressed too far for any effort of hers to arrest 
them. She had simply forbidden Kenneth to come 
to the house for the present. He had obeyed with¬ 
out demur. But Sir Garth’s prompt arrival had 
puzzled Viola. There had been no time to summon 
him except perhaps by telegram. She wondered 
with aching heart what had passed between the 
father and son at that first meeting, surely a momen¬ 
tous interview. Sir Garth gave her no inkling as to 
what was passing in his own mind. The note simply 
asked if he might come to see her. 

Her heart beat a little more quickly when he came 
into the sunny loggia where she was sitting with her 
books and work. She rose to greet him, and his first 
thought was how little she had essentially changed. 
She was still the same Viola, grave, beautiful, with 
the haunting eyes, the steady mouth with the slight 
droop in it, accentuated now in some degree, and 
giving an indescribable air of melancholy to the 
whole face. If he had imagined the sight of her now 
would have obliterated that earlier and adored 
vision of her which he had for so long carried 
secretly in his memory, he was mistaken. Viola was 
Viola, the woman who had renounced such untold 
things for her child. 

“You know why I’ve come,” he said, sitting in a 
wicker chair when the first cool greetings were over, 
and gazing straight in front of him to where the lake 
lay like a vast sheet of impalpable gray light. The 


VIOLA HUDSON 


473 

sunlight poured its largess of gold upon the fresh 
emerald of young leaves and on the somber branches 
of pine and ilex. “It’s this business of Kenneth’s,” 
he added. 

Viola sat silent, her pale hands folded in her lap. 

“You must help me, you know,” he went on, 
slightly embarrassed by her continued silence. “I 
shall need your help. You foresaw, Ken tells me, 
the impossibility of such a marriage for him.” 

“No—I only foresaw that you would disapprove 
of it,” she said, quickly, “and I urged Kenneth not to 
speak to Hilary until he had heard from you. But 
he didn’t wait. He kissed her and asked her to be 
his wife. It did just what I dreaded—it awakened 
Hilary to a knowledge of her own love for him. 
Up till then I believe the child only regarded him as 
a friend, a comrade of her own age.” 

Sir Garth fixed his eyes upon the splendid shape 
of Monte Grigna outlined against the sky. 

“They are very young, fortunately,” he said; 
“they will soon forget each other. And I don’t be¬ 
lieve Ken would eventually disobey me. You—you 
perhaps can count equally upon your daughter?” 

“Garth,” she said, calling him by his name for the 
first time, “I don’t mean to interfere with Hilary. 
You mustn’t ask me to do that. Tell Kenneth all 
about her history if you like; you are the only person 
in the world who knows all its details. If he gives 
her up there is no more to be said.” 

“You are asking me to say that all the sacrifices 
we both made in the past are to be in vain,” he 
retorted, quickly. 

Oh, it had been so unnecessary, yet so irremedi¬ 
able, this fortuitous encounter of their two children 
for whose sakes they had renounced both love and 
happiness fourteen years ago. While Garth had 
lived down, with all the effort of a strong will, his 
own desolation that followed on their parting, he 


474 


VIOLA HUDSON 


had never forgotten Viola. His life had not been 
happy with his second wife. He had been a good, 
patient husband, humoring all her whims, listening 
with unfailing kindness to her ceaseless complaints, 
consoling himself always with his love for his son, 
his son’s love for him. He looked appealingly at 
Viola. 

“You mustn’t ask me to sacrifice Hilary, and her 
happiness,” she said, in the old quiet, decisive way. 
“They love each other. You must see her. Perhaps 
when you see her you will understand that it 
wouldn’t be altogether easy for Kenneth to give 
her up.” 

“Hilary knows nothing?” 

“Nothing at all. She’s such a child in so many 
ways—I’ve tried to keep her from all knowledge of 
evil.” 

You must see her . . . He had not wished for 
that ordeal. The daughter might evoke insupport¬ 
able memories of Viola as she had been in those far- 
off Ceylon days. 

“Kenneth told you I’d become a Catholic?” he 
asked. 

“Yes. I was so glad—so thankful—” Her eyes 
kindled. 

“It was your doing, Viola. Your prayers when 
poor young Hartley died. I’d never thought much 
about the Catholic Church till then—I’d come across 
so few Catholics. You showed me the way . . . 
and I might never have found it otherwise.” His 
face softened. “I owe you a great deal.” 

She rose then and came toward him. “Garth, if 
you feel that you owe me anything, don’t interfere 
with Hilary’s happiness now! She’s more to me 
than all the world. She’ll make your son a good 
wife. She’s a very devout Catholic. And she loves 
him ...” Her voice faltered. She was pleading 


VIOLA HUDSON 


475 

for her child as he was dimly aware she had never in 
all her life pleaded for herself. 

“You mustn’t ask that of me,” he said, harshly. 
“Kenneth must think of our name. Oh, I know it 
was. through no fault of yours that Hilary’s an 
illegitimate child! But the ugly fact remains, and 
we can’t get over it.” 

“What did Kenneth say when you told him?” she 
inquired. 

“Oh, Kenneth’s in love—he only wants Hilary. 
You know what boys are—they never think of the 
future. They don’t seem to have the same sense of 
duty we used to have. Kenneth will suffer a good 
deal at first—but afterward he’ll live to thank 
me ...” 

Viola was silent. She had long ago become aware 
of that hard, obdurate strain in Garth’s character. 
Austerity had deepened it. Once she too had been 
bruised, almost broken, by its impact. 

“I made so sure you would help me,” he said, at 
last. 

“Not against Hilary. I would have helped you 
in any other way, if you had ever needed it.” 

“I want to get this business settled and take Ken¬ 
neth home with me to-night,” he said, and now there 
was a touch of exasperation in his tone. “It’s no 
use his staying here. He must think things well over 
in any case. And if he still persists in making an 
imprudent marriage, that will be his own affair.” 

He thought inconsequently then of his son as he 
had last seen him sitting with his face buried in his 
hands in the lounge at the hotel. There had been a 
dreadful despair in the attitude, as if his very soul 
were the prey of conflicting loyalties. Garth be¬ 
lieved that Kenneth’s loyalty to himself would ulti¬ 
mately prevail. This scrap of a girl whom he had 
only known a few weeks wouldn’t surely count for 
anything in the long run. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


476 

“I myself think it would be best for him to go 
away for a time,” said Viola. “I m not afraid, 
though, that he’ll forget Hilary. But, as you say, 
he must be given the chance to consider the matter 
thoroughly.” 

The feeling that Hilary could enter any house as 
an unwelcomed bride touched her pride sharply. 
Hilary’s affections were not easily aroused, she had 
always been slow even to make friends. The glad 
rapture of her young love, dimmed and sobered as 
it had been during those last few days by Kenneth’s 
enforced absence, had been a wonderful thing to 
behold. It had changed the girl utterly, deepening 
the essential sweetness of her. Love had quickened 
her, as it does the young, to a more vital life. It 
seemed to have shed a new radiance upon her beauty. 
She realized there would be difficulties, though she 
was very far from divining their grave nature, but 
hope and love were both far too strong not to 
triumph over that suggestion of doubt and uncer¬ 
tainty. Viola had not had the heart to tell her the 
truth. She was bound to know it now, and she would 
bear it better when she knew that Kenneth’s love 
was securely hers. 

Hilary was coming down the hill. She had been 
up to pay her usual daily visit to the church and had 
remained there a little longer than usual, her heart 
full of thanksgiving for her own happiness. As she 
approached the gate of the villa she saw Rebecca’s 
form standing there as if awaiting her. This un¬ 
usual sight caused her to quicken her pace. 

Rebecca looked a very odd, very British figure, in 
her old-fashioned raiment, her prim cap, her thin, 
grim face under the carefully parted hair. 

“Miss Hilary!” she said, in a mysterious whisper. 

“Why, what’s the matter, Becky?” 

“Sir Garth Bennet has come, miss. He’s in the 


VIOLA HUDSON 477 

loggia with your ma. He came soon after you’d 
gone out” 

“Is Kenneth with him?” asked Hilary, eagerly. 

Rebecca had as yet been told nothing of the affair, 
but she had used her eyes and brains to good pur¬ 
pose, and was convinced that the frank, sudden 
friendship would end in wedding-bells. 

Hilary was astonished and slightly disquieted. 
Why had he come? It was only five days since she 
had first learned of Kenneth’s love for her, and 
there had been barely time to summon Sir Garth to 
Italy. Perhaps some rumor had reached his ears 
from another source. Perhaps he had traveled 
hither in hot haste to step in and prevent the engage¬ 
ment. Hadn’t her mother told Kenneth that she 
was certain his father would disapprove of the idea 
of his marrying her daughter? 

“No, miss. He came quite alone.” 

“Why has he come do you think, Becky?” 

Hilary slipped her hand in her old nurse’s arm 
and together they went toward the house. 

Rebecca did not move a muscle of her harsh 
countenance. 

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, miss.” 

The flowers were very bright on the terrace as 
they passed by. The somber foliage of pine and ilex 
and cypress looked almost black beside the brilliant 
spring verdure that was everywhere bursting into 
leaf. 

Hilary cleared her throat. She would not permit 
these misgivings to spoil her immense trust in the 
happiness of the future. 

“Becky, had you ever seen Sir Garth before?” 

“A great many times, miss.” 

“In Ceylon?” 

“Yes, miss . . . When we were at Kellioya. You 
were almost a baby then.” 

Hilary still felt that obscure inexplicable anxiety. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


478 

She was positive now that this visit of Sir Garth’s 
concerned herself. Perhaps indeed he had traveled 
to Italy with the intention of putting an abrupt end to 
the affair. Why? Why shouldn’t she marry his son? 
She pressed Rebecca’s arm as if the little contact 
gave her courage. 

“Was he nice? Did you like him, Becky?” 

“Yes, he seemed a very nice gentleman. He 
wanted to marry your ma at one time.” 

“Wanted to marry Mummie?” exclaimed Hilary, 
now profoundly interested. “But he must have 
known he couldn’t! My father was still alive then, 
wasn’t he?” 

This point had always puzzled Rebecca. She only 
said after a slight pause: “Perhaps he thought some¬ 
thing could be done, miss.” 

Had her mother cared for this man? Was it for 
this reason that there had always been something 
tenderly maternal in her manner to Kenneth? Even 
at their first meeting Hilary had noticed her unusu¬ 
ally soft way of speaking to him . . . 

Hilary entered the house and went into the 
salotto. Viola came in almost at once through 
the window that led from the loggia. She said 
quickly: “Sir Garth Bennet has come, Hilary.” 

A tall, thin man with a slight stoop followed Viola 
into the room. They all three stood there, facing 
each other. To an onlooker there was something 
dramatic in the little scene. But Hilary, with all her 
abounding beauty, her youth and look of supple 
strength, the charm and sweetness of her, was not 
a vision to provoke either compassion or contempt. 

Garth took her hand and gave her a quick pene¬ 
trating glance. Her face was still rosy and glowing 
from exercise and from the contact with that strong 
pure air of the Spring morning; her hat had slipped 
back a little and beneath it he caught a glimpse of 
the golden crinkly hair that waved above it like an 


VIOLA HUDSON 


479 

aureole round the picture of a very youthful saint; 
her clear eyes were shining with subdued excitement. 
As he looked at her Garth’s heart sank. There was 
more than reason for Kenneth’s madness. No won¬ 
der the girl had swept him off his feet. 

“You don’t remember me, of course?” he said. 

“I think I do vaguely,” answered Hilary. His 
voice had seemed to touch some forgotten chord of 
memory. 

“You were such a very little girl at Kellioya.” 

“Quite big enough to be very odious, I expect,” 
said Hilary, giving a little tinkle of laughter. 

When she smiled she was adorable. Her beauty 
couldn’t of course be compared with Viola’s, and yet 
she had something that her mother hadn’t got. . . . 

“Your mother didn’t think so,” he said. 

“Oh, Mummie’s always spoilt me!” said Hilary, 
cheerfully. 

If all had been smooth and straight, how he would 
have welcomed this girl, daughter of the woman 
whom he had once so deeply loved, as his son’s wife. 
Her look of superb health and beauty, the candid 
sweetness of her, charmed him against his will. He 
had to tell himself again and again that the honor 
of his name and race counted for more than this 
young madness of love which surely Kenneth would 
soon learn to subdue . . . and to forget . . . 

But once, so his thoughts now ran, he had immo¬ 
lated his own love on that self-same altar. What 
had it led to ? Not happiness surely, although he had 
resolutely lived down his grief, had been the faith¬ 
ful, tender husband of another woman. Was it fair 
to ask a similar sacrifice of Kenneth? And ... of 
Viola? Tormented with these problems, he gazed 
almost with anguish from Viola to Hilary . . . 

The evil moment could not be deferred. And he 
was conscious that from time to time a faint cloud of 
anxiety was adumbrated upon Hilary’s face. She 


VIOLA HUDSON 


480 

must surely guess that he had come hither to discuss 
the proposed engagement, possibly indeed to veto it 
altogether. So far, without adducing any particular 
reason for that expected disapproval on his part, 
Viola must have conceded the truth to Hilary. 

“Is Kenneth coming this morning?” asked Hilary, 
giving him the opening he desired. 

“No. I wished to see you and your mother alone. 
If Kenneth takes my advice he will return with me 
to England to-night.” And now his voice was hard, 
intentionally cruel. Hilary blanched under the 
words. 

“Go back to England with you to-night?” she 
exclaimed, incredulously. 

Although she was so young she had a certain air 
of assurance that made her seem older than she was. 
She wasn’t a child, and this fact increased his 
difficulty. 

“But he’ll come to say good-by?” she asked, and 
her voice trembled a little. For the first time she 
felt that very strong and hostile though obscure 
forces were at work to separate her from Kenneth. 

“I don’t think so,” said Garth, not looking at her. 

“Why—what do you mean?” Some suspicion 
that behind it all there was some terrible reason— 
some just reason—for this attitude, came into her 
mind. It made her cry out: “What do you mean? 
What is there against me? Kenneth loves me—he’s 
asked me to be his wife . . . And now you don’t 
want him to see me again! I insist upon knowing 
why—I’m not a child, to be kept in the dark!” 

She seemed to be striking out blindly, violently, 
like a creature maddened by some sudden unexpected 
wound. Was there anything against her? Was 
there any real reason why Sir Garth should wish to 
banish his son in this way? Was there any truth in 
those hideous, malicious little innuendoes which 
Joyce Meade had not attempted to spare her? Yes, 


VIOLA HUDSON 


481 

there had always been something “queer” about her 
situation. Her mother’s life was still shadowed by 
some dark, past secret . . . And the chill darkness 
of that shadow seemed to envelop her now, blinding 
her, choking her . . . 

“Hush, Hilary darling.” Her mother’s voice 
came across the silence like some tender, soothing 
music. She felt Viola’s hand clasping hers. The 
touch gave her strength. 

“Is it—is it—something that Kenneth knows?” 
she cried. 

“Yes,” said Garth Bennet. 

“And because of it—he doesn’t love me any 
more?” There was a note of fierce determination 
in her voice now as if she intended to learn the truth 
at all costs. 

“No. He loves you as much as ever. But he is 
young—in time he would learn to forget ... to 
see the impossibility—” Garth broke off. 

“But I don’t understand why you want him to go? 
What is there against me?—Against—” her voice 
dropped—“my mother’s child?” 

A dull flush came into Garth Bennet’s face. He 
remembered then all that he owed to Viola. And 
she had told him that she was not prepared to sacri¬ 
fice Hilary. Always, always Hilary had come first 
with her. For this child of hers she had made sacri¬ 
fices that were almost too great to be envisaged. For 
Hilary, and Hilary’s faith. . . . 

“Hilary, when you know I hope you will forgive 
me.” He took up his hat and stick. It was as if he 
was no longer able to witness the grief and emotion 
his words had caused. 

Hilary was sitting on the sofa now, her face 
buried in her hands, sobbing as she had never sobbed 
since she was a little child. She did not notice Sir 
Garth’s departure. He was going to take Kenneth 



VIOLA HUDSON 


482 

from her, and the extremity of this loss filled her 
thoughts to the exclusion of all else. 

Garth held out his hand to Viola. “Good-by,” he 
said. 

As he went out of the room he thought for the 
first time: 

“She changed the meaning of life for me, and this 
is how I’m repaying her ...” 

They were fighting each other now for the wel¬ 
fare of their children. It was a fiercer, more embit¬ 
tered conflict than the former one, which had only 
concerned themselves. . . . 


CHAPTER VIII 

H ILARY drew her mother to the sofa, clasping 
her. Her sobs had ceased. 

“Mummie, I feel frightened. Don’t let go of 
me.” 

Viola slipped her arm about the young and vigor¬ 
ous body. At such a moment Hilary was only her 
baby, to be comforted and soothed. 

“Mummie, what’s happened about Ken? Is it 
something so very dreadful?” 

She sat staring in front of her with haggard eyes. 
Something of youth had gone out of her face. She 
looked older, almost worn. 

“Is it—some reason connected with my father?” 
she asked. 

Her young tormented eyes searched her mother’s 
face, as if demanding the truth from her. Yes, the 
truth, no matter how hard, how cruel a thing it 
might be. 

“Yes,” said Viola. Her hands were strained 
tightly together; she hardly dared look at her 
daughter then. The moment of revelation had 
come, and she could only pray that she and Hilary 


VIOLA HUDSON 


483 

might bear its anguish together, so that it would cast 
at least no shadow upon their happy love. She 
prayed, too, that she might be spared the ultimate 
punishment of losing her daughter’s love . . . 

Even now Viola did not deceive herself. She 
deserved even this punishment for her own wilful 
rebellion against the Church’s laws, for that past 
deliberate misuse of her beautiful gift of free-will. 
And it was that rebellion, with all it included of 
blindness and ecstasy, so fruitful, too, in its dire and 
everlasting consequences, that had brought her to 
this moment of culminating anguish. If Hilary’s 
love for her were to perish now, she would have to 
accept that also as the just and inevitable penalty 
of her past mutiny. For in her heedless rebellion 
she had involved another soul besides her own. The 
white soul of Hilary. . . . 

She stood up and looked at the fair bowed head. 

“Perhaps you won’t be able to forgive me, 
Hilary,” she said. 

Her tone was dull and frozen. 

For of course the punishment must involve Hilary 
also. In some sort it had already pierced her sharply 
with the point of its sword. She thought with poign¬ 
ant suffering of the long and happy years she had 
spent with her little girl. Of the way in which she 
had tried to teach and train her. Of her love, grow¬ 
ing greater every day. Of her thankfulness for 
Hilary’s goodness, her passionate faith, her love . . . 

“Forgive you, darling Mummie?” said Hilary, 
looking up and smiling through her tears. 

“I wronged you, Hilary. Before you were born 
I wronged you.” 

Hilary’s clear eyes had a look of terror in them. 
“Oh, but Joyce said it couldn’t possibly be your fault 
because you’d had me with you always. She said, in 
a separation, it was always the innocent one who had 


VIOLA HUDSON 


484 

the custody of the child. Don’t tell me it was your 
fault, Mummie!” 

She had always regarded her mother as a saint. 
Viola’s character seemed to her of an almost flawless 
perfection. She had a terror of beholding the de¬ 
struction of her idol. “Don’t tell me, Mum! I think 
I’d rather not hear ...” 

“It wasn’t my fault in the way you mean,” said 
Viola, aghast to find that Joyce had discussed the 
possibilities of the case in so much detail. “I was 
not ... an unfaithful wife. But, dear Hilary, I 
was never your father’s wife at all.” 

As she spoke she turned her face abruptly away. 
She did not wish to see her child’s face then. She 
thought: “This is the end. I’ve forfeited her 
love ...” 

“Never his wife? You were never married at 
all?” The look of horror deepened in Hilary’s 
eyes. 

“I was never married.” 

“And I? What am I?” 

“You are not a legitimate child, Hilary.” 

“You should have told me ... ” 

“I always meant to tell you when you were older.” 

“Does Ken know?” 

“Garth told him last night.” 

There was a long silence, then Hilary said: 

“Why didn’t my father marry you, Mummie?” 

“We went through a form of marriage in what 
I believed was a Protestant chapel, and it was only 
many weeks later that he told me it wasn’t a legal 
ceremony. Then a little later, when I realized you 
were coming into the world, he offered to marry me. 
But it was on the condition that you—that all our 
children—should be brought up as Protestants. 
Plilary, I had to choose one of two things for you. 
I chose what I believed to be right even though it 
involved us both in suffering. Where I was wrong 


VIOLA HUDSON 


485 

was in going through that ceremony, deliberately 
foregoing the blessing of the Church upon my mar¬ 
riage. I was very young, but I knew that I was 
doing wrong. I disobeyed, I rebelled, because I 
loved him.” 

Hilary was measuring with her young clear vision 
the precise extent of her mother’s sacrifice. 

“I thought perhaps when you realized what you 
had in place of name and position, that you would 
forgive me.” 

Hilary still remained silent. She was beginning 
to understand what it must have cost her mother to 
make that mighty decision while still in her young 
youth. To keep this shadow in their lives. To cling 
to the Cross, as an expiation, a reparation . ... Of 
course, just at first, one felt the shame. But it had 
been heroic, this action of her mother’s. Being what 
she was she could have made no other choice. It 
was a characteristic result of Hilary’s upbringing 
that she was able, even then, to envisage the problem 
from a Catholic standpoint. 

“How did Sir Garth know?” she asked, suddenly. 

He had lost no time in traveling to Italy, to rescue 
his son from the proposed marriage. Someone must 
have warned him, and he, aware of the stigma that 
was attached to her, had come to urge Kenneth to 
leave her. The thought was terrible to Hilary. It 
made her feel like a pariah—an outcast—a scape¬ 
goat. Suffering, too, through no fault of her own. 

“I had to tell him when I was in Ceylon. He 
came to ask me if there was no way of having my 
marriage dissolved. He wanted to marry me, and 
he thought—as everyone else did—that I was living 
apart from my husband. I felt then that I had to 
tell him the truth.” 

“And then—wouldn’t he marry you?” asked 
Hilary. 


VIOLA HUDSON 


4 86 

“Yes, he still wished it. But he made a condition, 
Hilary. I should have had to give you up. He 
didn’t want you to live with us. I should have had 
to renounce you . . She looked wistfully at her 
daughter. 

Hilary rose and came up to her and put her arms 
round her. 

“Mummie darling—I’m glad that you didn’t give 
me up. Will you tell me one thing more? I want 
to know my father’s name.” 

“It was Esme Craye. He was Lord Bethnell’s 
only son. They have a place at Ardlesham in Hamp¬ 
shire, near where I lived with Aunt Hope as a child. 
We played together as children. He was Garth’s 
cousin.” 

“And he never saw me—his only child?” 

Viola shook her head. “You were born in Italy. 
And when you were six months old I took you to 
Kellioya.” 

There was a long pause, then Hilary said: 

“Mum, has it made up to you at all, having me?” 

“It’s made up for everything!” Viola’s voice was 
emphatic. “You have been all my world, Hilary. 
I wish I could have given you the things you had a 
right to. But I’ve given you what I could.” 

Their eyes met. The girl’s face was wonderful 
then, all softened and radiant despite the tears that 
still hung on her eyelashes. 

“Mum, I’ve been thinking it over . . . and I want 
to tell you—” 

“Yes, darling?” 

“If I’d had to make that choice you had to 
make—about me, I mean—I should have done just 
what you did. I’d rather be a Catholic than have— 
the other things. If it weren’t for Ken I shouldn’t 
mind so much about the rest.” 

There was a little stir in the loggia and Kenneth 


VIOLA HUDSON 


487 


entered the room. He was breathless as If he had 
been running. 

The mother and daughter drew apart. 

He did not seem to notice Viola, but went straight 
across the room to Hilary and gathered her in his 


arms. 

u 


Hil, darling, I’ve come back . . . You didn’t 
think, did you, that I ever meant to go away? I love 
you, Hil ...” 

“But your father—” said Viola. 

Kenneth turned to Viola as if he were for the first 
time aware of her presence. His thoughts had all 
been for Hilary, as if he had guessed something of 
the suspense she must have been suffering. 

“Oh, I was forgetting. Dad gave me this note 
for you.” He thrust an envelope into Viola’s hand. 

She went out into the loggia. Standing there she 
broke the seal and drew out a flimsy sheet of paper 
on which a few words were hastily scrawled. 


“I am sending Kenneth back to your daughter. You 
were right—I can’t ask you to sacrifice her. I owe 
you a great debt, and I have always felt it was greater 
than I could ever repay. But I can pay back something 
of it now by giving you Hilary’s happiness. My 
blessing on them both. 

“Garth.” 


THE END 


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COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
PARISHES, net, $8.00. 
COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net, $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACR^E LITURGI/E. 

Wapelhorst, O.F.M. net, ^$3.00. 
ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 

Thein. 4to, half mor. net, $6.50. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net, ^$4.00. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. net, 
H$ 2 . 75 - 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
MISSAL, THE. Britt, O.S.B. net, 
$6.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST. 

Millet, S.J.-Byrne. net, $3.25. 
LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM, Or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, size 
14X10 inches. 100 Families. 2oopages, 
half leather, net, $7.00. 200 Families. 

400 pp. half leather, net, $8.00; Pocket 
Edition, net, $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
mann. net, $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 

Slater. S.J. 2 vols. net, $8.00. 
MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net, 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
net, $2.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net, $3.75. 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
net, H$o.i5. 

MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
Black or red Amer. morocco, gold edges, 
net, $15.00; red Amer. morocco, gold 
stamping and edges, net, $17.50; red, 
finest quality morocco, red under gold 
edges, net, $22.00. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
ICAL PRACTICE. Coppkns, S.J., 
Spalding, S.J. net, $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net, *’$2.75. 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY- Stang. net, 
H$2.25. 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. net, $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. 11X8 inches, net, 
$3.00. 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net, $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh. O.P. net, $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nodi Diocesan® ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net, $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net, $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net, $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 

entries, net, $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUNIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net, 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 700 entries, net, $7.00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 

2100 entries, net, $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
net, $1.25; seal, net, $2.00. 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY, Slater, S.J. net, $0.75. 


s 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
Gigot. Part I. net , ^[$2.75. Part II. 
net , life.25. 

SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net , $2.50. 


TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THE 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams. 
net , $ 5 - 75 - 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net , 
$1.50. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net , $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
mouy. 2 vols., net . $4.00. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net , $4. so. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net , $q.oo. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net , $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thurston, S.J. 

3 vols., net , $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net , $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net , $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. Pott- 
geisser, SJ, 2 vols., net , $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net , $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net , 
$2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net , $2.75. 


V. HISTORY. BIOGRAPHY, HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. net , 
$ 1 . 75 - 

CAM 1 LLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
of Mercy, net , $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net , $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net , 
$ 5 - 5 °- 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 
$ 3 - 5 °- 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 

U$o. 7 S. 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 
quet. net , $0.85. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net , $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net , $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $2.75. 


LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan, 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net , $15.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 
Genelli, S.J. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Rohner. net , $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net , $0.75. 

LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net , 
$2.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net , $0.85. 

MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. n,$3.oo. 

MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net , $1.75. 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlier. net , $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net , $1.50. 


6 


PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on front cover. Each, io 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
net, $1.75; per 100 copies, assorted, 
net, $6.75. Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 

Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 

St. Michael; St. Francis Xavier; St. 

Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 

Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 

St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 

St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 400 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net, $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abbk Joseph, net, $0.85. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net, $ 3 - 5 °- 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod¬ 
ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 84 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net, $12.00 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net, $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net, $0.85. 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net, $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated, net, $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J. -Semple, S.J. net, $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By John 
Ayscough. Illustrated, net, $3.00. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net, $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
Told for Children. Lings, net, $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF TH E APOS¬ 
TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, net, 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.85. 

WONDER STORY, THE. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, net, $0.25; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an. edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.00. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR. MAKING A 
START 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 

HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE.” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR¬ 
ANCE 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING'S BOOKS. 

SIGNALS^FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE. 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net, $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nirdlinger. net, $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. net, 

ATTHE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net, $0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net, $0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. net, 
$0.85. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net, $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net, $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net, 

“ BUTTHY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net, $0.60. 



CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net , $1.00. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net , $1.25. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net , $1.00. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net , 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 
Delamare. net , $0.85. 

CLARE L 0 RA 1 NE. “Lee.” net , $0.85. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net , 
$1.00. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net , 
$1.15. 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. net , $0.60. 

CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net , 
$r.oo. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. m,$o. 85 . 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net , $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net , 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net , 
$0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net , 
$1.00. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net , 
$1.25. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delaware. 
net , $0.8■>. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net , $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net , 
$1.25. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 
net . $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 
net , $0.60. 

FREDDY CARR'S ADVENTURES. 
Garrold, S.J. net , $0.85. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 
Garrold, S.J. net , $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net , 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net , 
$0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net , $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net , 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net , 
$1.25. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net , $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 
Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 
Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net , $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net , $0.85. 

IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. Man¬ 
nix. net . $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net , $0.85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, 
$0.60. 

J ACK-O’LANTERN. Waggaman. net , 
$0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

Taggart, net , $0.85. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net , $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 
Series. net , $0.83. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net , $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net , $0.85. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net , 

$0.85. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delaware, net , $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net , $0.60. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net , $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net , $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net , $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn. S.J. net , $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 
nowe. net , $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net , 
$.0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 
net , $1.25. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 

net , $0.85. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad¬ 
lier. net , $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net , $0.85. 
MIRALDA. Johnson, net , $0.60. 
MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net , $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net , $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
Sadlier. net , $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 
net , $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 
NED RIEDER. Wehs. net , $o.8s. 

NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net , $0.85. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net , $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net , $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net , $1.00. 
PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 
net , $0.60. 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net , $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. net , 

$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net , $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net. 
$1.25. 


8 


PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 
net , $0.60. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga- 
man. net , $1.25. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net , 
$0.85. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net , $0.85. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net , 
$0.60. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 
man. net , $1.25. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
entia. net , $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net , $1.00. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bone- 
steel. net , $0.60. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 
Bearne, S J. net , $1.25. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. net , 
$1.25. 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net , $1.25. 

SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net , 
$0.60. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 
Nixon-Roulet. net , $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net , 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 
Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net , $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 
Spalding, S.J. net , $1.00. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net , $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net , $1.00. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 
net , $0.60. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net , 
$0.85. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net , $0.85. 

TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net , 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net , 
$1.00. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net , $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net , $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net , 

TOM*PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net , $1.00. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net , 
$0.60. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net , $0.60. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag¬ 
gaman. net , $1.25. 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net , $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack, net , 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
tia. net , $1.50. 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
Waggaman. net , $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net , $0.60. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
Taggart, net , $0.85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net , $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 

ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net , $ 2.00. 


NOVELS. Each, net , $2.00. 
CARINA. 

AVERAGE CABINS. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

EUNICE. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mite. 8vo. net , $2.00. 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke. net ,$ 2.00. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net , $2.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net , $1.65. 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

Earls, S.J. net , $1.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net , $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net , $0.85. 


BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net , $2.00. 

CARINA. Clarke, net , $2.00. 
CARROLL DARE. Waggaman. n , $o.8s. 
CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net , $0.85. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke. »,$2.oo. 
CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net , $0.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net , 
$0.85. 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 
net , $2.00. 

DEEP HEART, THE. Clarke, net , 
$2.00. 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 
net , $2.00. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net , 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net , $0.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net , $2.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke, net , $2.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net , $0.85. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, n , $0.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net , $0.85. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net , $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net , $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net , $2.00, 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
net, $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
net, $o.8s. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher. »e/,$2.oo. 
HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. net, $0.85. 
HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn. net, $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. Holt, net, $0.85. 
HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink¬ 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net, 

HER 8 JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net, 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net, $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
$0.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Staniforth, net, 
$0.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net, $2.00. 
KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 

Harrison, net, $0.85. 

LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $0.85. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net, $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr. net,% 1.65. 
LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulholland. 
net, $0.85. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 

Earls, S.J. net, $2.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, S.J. 
net, $0.85. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net, 
$2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, $0.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. «,$i.6s. 
MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net, $0.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net, $1.65. 
ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin. n,$o.8s. 
OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, $0.85. 
OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
uothe. net, $0.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 

$165- 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net, $1.50. 
PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net, $1.25. 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadleer. 
net, $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
ROSE OF THE WORLD. Marten, net, 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0 85. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS net, 
$0.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace, net, 
$0.85. 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 
net, $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 

net, $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE 
Cooke, net, $0.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net, $0.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Ruf- 
FIN. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net, $0.85. 
SON OF SIRO, THE. Copcs, S.J. net, 
$2.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net, $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. net, $1.50. 
TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net, $0.85. 
THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 
$0.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net, $0.85. 
THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 

WICZ. net, $2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net, $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 
net, $0.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 
net, $0.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net, $2.00. 
UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 

Taggart, net, $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O.S.B. net, $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net, $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid, net, 

$1.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche, 
S.J. net, $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 

Harrison, net, $0.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net, $2.00. 
WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 
net, $1.65. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net , 
$1.65. 


10 














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Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 





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